Unbraided
by thefireplanet
Summary: She makes a deal with him because she has caught her daughter looking out the window far too often for her liking. A darker re-telling of the tale about the girl with the magic hair.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n:** this is the darker!Rapunzel story. i have some of the plot and things worked out in my head, so hopefully everyone likes it! if you read the original Unbraided-shot i had here (thank you, thank you, thank you for the reviews, btw) then this happens before that and i took the other down for now so it can follow the story, but it'll be back up in two or three chaps.

chaps shall be short-ish for now.

* * *

She makes a deal with him because she has caught her daughter looking out the window far too often for her liking.

The forest is dark and moon-dappled, with the large, twisting roots of the trees reaching up out of the ground like some old, gnarled hand. She steps carefully, gingerly, holding close her olive green cape that gives her the appearance of some walking leaf, floating down from above to wander the night below.

She spies the man before he spies her; silently she steps towards him, is suddenly behind him, taps one shoulder carefully—he stumbles forward, startled, losing his balance and looking somewhat annoyed as he pushes himself up right and turns around.

"Flynn Rider, I presume?" she drawls out, smiling a tight little smile. She has to admit, the wanted posters have not done him justice. He rubs his jaw as he sizes up the situation.

"That would be me. Though I hardly thought my employer would look like _you_." He flits a hand nervously through his hair and it falls artfully back into place. Recognizing his gaffe, he quickly comes back with, "Not that there's anything wrong with you."

She is sure he is lying. Most people find her unsettling. She twists a loose strand of hair behind her ear and her tight little smile fades. "I did not call you here for small talk, Flynn Rider. I have a request to make of you. A request that is most…unusual."

"Well, I've done some pretty unusual things, if you know what I mean." He smiles and his eyebrows move—rather disconcertingly, she thinks—and when she does not return the look it quickly fades into one of confusion.

"My daughter," she decides to avoid any more distractions and steps closer to him in the moonlight, noting the small pouch at his waist and the bronze studs on his blue vest—really, a perfect specimen for her plan. "It is crucial that my daughter does not leave our home."

"What…?" He looks very uncomfortable.

"She has a precious gift that could be squandered and wasted out in the wide world. She is not nearly strong enough to protect herself and could easily die. It would be beneficial to her—and thus, to me—that she remain inside our home."

"I don't understand. Why wouldn't you let her leave? I mean, the 'wide world' isn't all that bad—"

"And yet there are thieves and vagabonds like _you_ in it." Her voice is caustic and he flinches. "Besides, you don't need to understand, Flynn Rider. I hired you because you are said to be one of the best thieves in Corona. Was I incorrect?"

She could kill him now, and be done with it, hire a new one in the morning and try again tomorrow night.

"Of course I'm one of the best thieves."

"Well, how very convenient then. Back-story aside, I require you to do nothing more than steal into our home. I shall be away until the sun sets, everyday. Understood?"

"Hardly. But that's not the point, is it?" His own remark is cutting.

"You are not to take her outside."

"Alright."

"You are to make her fall in love with you."

"Excuse me?"

"And then break her heart."

"Look," he takes a step back, nimbly avoiding tripping on a tree root, "I didn't come all the way out here to break the hearts of teenage girls. I do enough of that already, and without being hired to."

The dagger she is holding in her left hand, concealed beneath her cape, presses sharply against her side. With her other she takes a heavy pouch of coins from where they had sat around her neck and tosses it to the forest floor between them. "Your reward will be handsome."

The gold glitters in the moonlight and he hesitantly reaches down to check their consistency.

"Consider that the down payment."

He squats for a moment over the bag, sifting through its contents, something unreadable behind his eyes. Finally he stands, knees cracking, and says, "Fine."

Her smile is feral, like a cat as she reaches her right hand forward and clasps his own.

"Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n:** things should pick up soon, guys, but for now i'm setting the stage and stuff. you guys, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR REVIEWS! :) i love them all, and they are all so nice-i'm sorry i haven't been able to respond much to them, schools been pretty crazy. yuck.

ten points if you can guess the concept art i based this off of.

* * *

The mottled sky overhead looks ready to burst and a slight breeze plays with her face as she peers out at the world below, a jungle of greens and browns, overgrown and under-kept. There is movement in the room behind her but she does not look, just leans farther across the threshold of the window, bare arms scraping against rough, dark wood, gooseflesh rippling across her skin.

"Rapunzel, honestly, you could at least help me." There is distaste lining the voice.

"Sorry, Mother," she turns, pulling herself away from the tantalizing view around her and into the shadowy room. High above a drapery of reds, golds, greens, and blues add a splash of color to the dark wood of the walls and floors.

"That's a dear," her mother is bustling around the kitchen with a pre-occupied air. "Can you cut that bread, please?"

"Of course," she picks up the knife gingerly lying on the counter and brings it down into the hard loaf of bread, cutting off half of it. Her mother grabs the piece and sets it down into the wide, woven basket sitting on the counter between them, amid two or three apples and some cheese.

There is a thick, uncomfortable silence. If she swung the knife forward, she is sure she could cut it. Instead she sets it down and steps into the middle of the kitchen, blue fabric swishing around her legs.

"Mother, are you alright?" She doesn't know why, but she's been tip-toeing around the tower all morning.

"What?" Her mother seems distracted; one of the apples in the basket keeps traveling between her hands and the counter. She sees Rapunzel's worried glance and smiles thinly. "Oh yes, yes of course dear."

"Are you sure you have to leave? Maybe you should stay and rest." She notices the dark circles sitting underneath the thin, black eyes.

"Not today."

Rapunzel pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear but it just falls right back across her eyes. She steps out of the small kitchen area and is moving back towards the window to look out at the world below when her mother snaps, "Rapunzel, while I'm gone, let's clean up the tower a little, shall we?"

She stops and turns towards the regal figure still standing in the kitchen, watching that shiny red apple move from hand to basket to hand to counter. Then she takes in the great room, the stairs leading to her loft above, the curtains hiding her mother's room, the kitchen. Nothing looks particularly out of place. The dirtiest thing in the room is the grand fireplace, black with soot, in front of which the high-back chair her mother sits during the evening stands lonely, proud.

She smoothes out the fabric of her gown, which looks a deep navy instead of a light sky underneath the dark light entering through the window. She had been proud of it this morning, her latest work, but now, under the withering gaze of her mother, she feels ugly and small and under-dressed. "Yes, Mother."

She hears a sigh and the apple finally falls back into the basket. Her mother settles it on her arm and silently opens her arms; Rapunzel makes the journey back into the confining kitchen and returns the embrace, which seems as cool and gray as the weather outside. When she steps backward her mother has an odd look on her face.

"Is there anything you need from town, my flower?"

The request seems strangely normal and for a moment she is taken aback. "Well," she says after a pause in which pictures of a thousand different things float past and she settles on the most mundane, "I do need more paints."

"Alright, dear." Her mother walks quickly over to the window and peers down at the world below. "Alright." She absently walks back to the kitchen. "Will you be alright?"

She frowns at the short, repetitive speech and Rapunzel smiles reassuringly.

"I know that I'm safe as long as I'm here."

Her mother steps towards the window once more, staring down at the world of black-gray-green-brown. When she turns back to meet her daughter's face her own is smiling widely.

"Yes, of course you are Rapunzel. No one can hurt you here."


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n:** i have an excuse for not updating for like a year and it has a horrible name coughSATcough. i also meant to respond to everyone's reviews, because they were amazing, as always, but school got in the way again. i was going to do it today but thought you guys would think me weird if you got a message two weeks after the fact saying 'Thank you!' so i'm just going to do that here-

Thank you: WhoaATwist, RomanticFictionFreak, WickedSong, duwadu, 26ja, and Airplane (ok, when I saw Airplane reviewed my fic i about had a heart attack [in a good way]) so THANK YOU ALL :)

i swear he'll meet Rapunzel in the next chapter. bear with me.

* * *

He doesn't quite know what he's expecting, but it's not this.

The clearing is dark because the sky overhead is a mottled shade of gray. A slight breeze floats down and brushes back his hair. Behind him the ivy rustles to a stop; the little tunnel spits him out into a wide, canyon-like area, overgrown with greenbrowndead bushes and trees that look dark and sad under the non-existent sunlight. He can't even see a path through the undergrowth, can't even see the house he is supposed to break into.

"Damn old woman," he mutters to himself, not for the first time having second thoughts about this whole endeavor. He pushes aside the nearest shrubs, thin, spiny branches scratching against the old leather of his boots, but still can't see a way through. He moves around in little circles until he finally spies a worn, thin path leading down along the canyon.

Tall, bushy trees reach out overhead. He skirts along the trail, some foreign emotion settling deep in his stomach. The thin stretch of dirt curves sharply left and he can hear the little babble of a stream.

"Okay, Flynn. Look at the bright side." He pauses for a moment, pushing under an overgrown, unknown shrub. "There is a bright side." He says defensively, and a crow takes flight form the nearest tree, startling him forward. He trips slightly but catches his balance.

"Gold. Gold is always good."

The little stream running away gives a melancholy sort of answer, and he pauses, frustrated. "Where the hell is this house, anyway?" He snarls to the air, and for a moment he stands, heart pounding, chest heaving, for entirely different reasons. The unkempt world around him offers no response.

He feels, unexplainably, like he is in way over his head. And part of him, the relatively decent part, does not want to do this to a girl. He's done it before, mostly on accident, mostly because he tends to have one too many drinks, but this—

"This is different." And he doesn't know who he is whispering to, or why he suddenly feels the need to justify the job ahead. "This is different, but I need the money."

Hell, he's done worse.

Stolen from the poor, the rich, the in-between. That's worse, right?

"Damn. It." He curses again, kicking at the ground and bending slightly to sink his head in his hands. "Get over it, Rider, you are on a job."

Now is not the time to develop a heart.

He groans and stretches upward, looking towards the sky, which is again visible, a sliver, through the heavy, dead foliage above, a dull monochrome.

The path takes another curve and suddenly he is jumping to avoid the small stream, which, after being heard for so long, has finally come into sight. He turns, on the other side, and bends down to dip a hand into the cool, clear water.

The water hits his face and settles his resolve, his nerves. He straightens up and rubs the remaining dewdrops from his eyes; he's still blinking them rapidly when he looks up behind him. His mouth drops.

It is a testament to the amount of growth and foliage and trees and shrubs and unkempt jungle that surrounds him that he didn't see the tower. The tower.

A. Tower.

It rises out of the earth, the same mottled gray-green as the undergrowth around it, thin and rounded, tapered to a thin point that he can barely see. He steps back, in awe, trying to capture the whole building in his view, and, forgetting the stream, splashes straight into it.

He shakes the water off his boot, stumbling forward towards the tower's base, because it rises serenely out of the mess and nothing is growing within ten feet of it—it's surrounded by a perfect circle of dead-ish brown-green grass. The plants just stop. From somewhere on the other side of the building he can hear the roar of a waterfall.

Rubbing his beard he steps forward, looking for the door. The stones are hard and unyielding, all the way around the tower's base. He pauses, briefly considering turning around, but his vision glitters gold and he brushes off his hand, looking for a foot-hold.

From somewhere behind him he swears he hears, "Time to climb, Rider." But as his head turns jerkily towards the noise nothing is there except the crow from earlier, alighted on a new branch, and a hint of _olive green_—

_If the old lady is watching you from the forest_, Flynn muses, attempting to find purchase for his hands and feet, _does she make a sound?_


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n:** hey guys, your lovely reviews are amazing. this little beauty is chugging along. yepyep. i know the chapters are super short-i'd love to make them longer, but i don't have too much time right now, i'm sorry. :( things are starting to pick up though. so get ready.

thank you to: WickedSong, Alltangledup95, Hanging on a thread, littlelionluvr, 26ja, wawuwa, Pirazz, and Princess Shahrazad for reviewing! i'm sorry again i couldn't respond personally, but thank you all for taking the time to review, i really appreciate it :)

ps i wrote the next chap already, and its slightly longer. so expect a quick update!

* * *

She spies the hand first, just the tapered tips of slender fingers as they grip the side of the window frame, and for a moment she is speechless and motionless in the middle of her tower.

But when the arm follows the hand through the open window she bolts to the side, towards the confining little kitchen, sweeping up the golden mess before her and hunkering down on the other side of the curved archway, heart pounding an irregular rhythm in her chest and mind still trying to catch up to the whole situation. Something dark and heavy lies on the floor near her bare foot and she quickly picks it up by the handle, straining to hear any noises from the great, dark room beyond.

A grunt. Something creaks. A crash. "Damn it."

She presses the cast iron frying pan closer to her chest.

There is, then, a pause in which nothing sounds from outside and the only thing she can hear inside is her own pounding heart. Mind whirring, she takes the barest glimpse around the dark mahogany of the wood before her.

The figure is outlined by the window, tall and slender in the half-light from the gray clouds outside. She tilts her head, trying to see more, when suddenly—

"Hello?"

She takes a quick intake of breath and hunkers further behind her hiding place, except she does so less gracefully than before and tumbles into a little pot in which her mother often threw the trash, and the whole mess spills onto the floor. She shoots to her feet, forgetting for a brief second the intruder because Mother will not be pleased—

"Hello?"

Again, the intruder, except this time the voice is closer. She makes a run for it, out of the kitchen and up the stairs leading to her loft so quickly that she is sure he cannot clearly see her—especially because the tower room is dark except for the small circle of light the window lets in, the circle in which he has moved to the edge of, looking up the stairs with a perplexed expression on his face. Still holding the frying pan, she edges herself over the lip of the floorboards making up her loft, peering down.

"Hello?" He repeats a third time, and she still cannot clearly see his face.

She doesn't quite know exactly what to do. She could go down and address him. But Mother had clearly warned her many times about the horrors of people in the outside world—what they could do to innocent girls, like kill them or chop them up and put them in a stew.

She could attempt to sneak around him and out the window—

No. Mother would be furious, and she couldn't leave the tower.

_Two options. _Rapunzel thought quickly,_ Neither seem particularly great_.

He's stopped, now, standing in that little circle of gray light and peering around at the tower room. For a moment she imagines what it must look light—dark, uninviting, deep-rose wood floors and walls. She has the strangest urge for him to look up, at the fabrics she has draped over the ceiling, because at least they add a bit of light to the place.

He's rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. He takes one step forward, towards the stairs, and she bolts again, this time nimbly leaping from her loft to a support pole and sliding down to the floor. Her movements startle him and he stops, and only then does she realize what an absolute mess she has gotten herself into.

Her hair ends at the kitchen, on the other side of the tower, runs up the stairs, loiters around her loft, and then spills, like a golden waterfall, down to the ground and her current position.

There is no way to gather it all up.

"Hello?"

She's starting to think that's all he can say, and suddenly, gripping the metal of the frying pan, she straightens up in the darkness. Option number one it is.

"Who are you?" she is glad her voice comes out high and clear, "And how did you find me?"

"What? I don't—" he whips around to face her, squinting into the darkness. She still cannot see him very well.

"Who are you, and how did you find me?" She says again.

He takes another step forward, towards her. "I…uh…I'm—"

But Rapunzel thinks he took one step too close and, closing her eyes and biting her lip, she takes a running swing at the man with the frying pan, because she doesn't really expect to actually _hit_ anything, more just startle—

_Clang_.

The man drops to the floor.

The girl bolts back to the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: **quickest update ever ahaha things are starting to get rolling! i'm sorry it's taking so long for them to meet. i tend to drag things out. so.

reviewers! you are amazing! thank you: Princess Shahrazad, Wicked Song, Krung, Alltangledup95, and shortygirl333. :)

here we go.

* * *

When she finally ventures back towards him it is with slow, baited steps and the frying pan still hanging loosely from her hand.

She pokes him lightly in the shoulder with one pointed toe, and when he does not stir she settles ungracefully into a squat, wrapping her hands around her knees and studying him closely. His hair, a deep brown, is obscuring his face, and she gingerly flips it back with the handle of the frying pan.

"Huh," she tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear and tilts her head to one side. His face is all angles, a well-defined hawk-nose and strong brow. The scruff of a beard is growing on his chin.

She's admiring the sky blue of his vest, because she wants to capture that color and paint it on the walls, when he groans and stirs—she shoots backward, getting tangled up in her hair and breathing quickly as he slowly opens his eyes and pushes himself into a sitting position.

"Ow." He's rubbing the back of his head. "Ow. That really hurt."

"I'm sorry." She says this because she imagines it is the right thing to say to a stranger you've just hit with a cast-iron frying pan, even though she really isn't very sorry at all.

"Yeah, well, watch where you swing that thing." He seems to see her for the first time, on the floor in a mess of gold with her bare feet showing and a scared countenance, and his face goes a little slack.

She scrambles quickly to her feet, frying pan held defensively in front of her. He eyes it suspiciously and slowly mirrors her movements—when he finally stands he's nearly a foot taller than her, but she's too busy backing up to notice that right away.

There is silence then; a crow calls from outside the window, a slight breeze enters the tower, and there is a soft rustling as the drapery overhead moves in the wind. The man scuffs his shoe against the floor and holds up his hands.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you, ok?"

"Ok." She says, but continues to hold the frying pan out in front of her.

Another pause.

"You live here?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Things are getting uncomfortable, and she can't help but wish for Mother. Instead she inches forward, gray light dusting her feet as she levels the frying pan at his chest. "You never answered my question. Who are you, and how did you find me?"

"I'm—"

"What do you want with my hair? To cut it? Sell it?"

"_Excuse me_?"

"My hair!"

"Why on earth would I want your hair?"

"I—what?"

"I don't want your ha—ir…" He is just noticing the trail of gold fanning out behind her, over the stairs and around the whole tower room, and for another moment silence reigns as he stares, slack-jawed, at the mass. "That's a lot of hair."

She suddenly feels very self-conscious, and she forgets for a moment to keep the frying pan level in the air and it drops to her side. With one hand she fiddles with the nearest piece of gold she can reach. "Don't…don't people normally have a lot of hair?"

She thinks of Mother, and the severe bun she wears, and how, even down, her hair does not reach past her shoulder blades. She always assumed that it was cut somewhere in town.

"Ah…" he lifts his hand and she swings the frying pan back up. "No. Most people don't have this much hair. But enough about that," his mood changes instantly, like the weather sometimes does, and he leans forward with what she assumes is a debonair smile.

It looks rather obnoxious, though, and she wonders if all men are supposed to act this strange.

"I'd like to know more about you."

"I will use this." She pokes the heavy, flat end of the pan into his chest and he backs up again. "Besides, I want to know how you found me. No one has ever found my tower before. Ever."

He seems flustered, and for another moment his face hangs in between emotions. When his mouth finally works again he coughs into his fist and leans back on the heels of his feet. "Well, I was running. Through the forest."

"Running?"

"Yes. Running…away. Running away from…some…people."

"Were they bad people?"

"Uh, yes, yes they were. Very bad. Horrendously bad."

"Why were they chasing you?"

"You ask a lot of question, do you know that?"

"Only because you are very bad at answering them."

"Ok, look," he rubs the back of his neck and swings forward a few steps, causing her to back up farther into the shadows, "I think we got off on the wrong foot. I promise I'll tell you my story, once I know your name."

There was something so strangely alluring about this whole situation, and the part of her brain that had been quite active the past few months in imagining the outside world was doing doubletripleover time. She thought, quickly, of her mother, and for the first time in her seventeen almost eighteen years she said to herself, _What Mother doesn't know, won't hurt her._

_ Right?_

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Because I'm a man of my word. And I don't want to hurt you. I only want a place to hide out."

"From the bad people."

"Yes."

He extends his hand, and it hangs empty and forlorn in the air. She stares at it, confused. He moves it expectantly up and down, and when she makes no motion closer he says, "You shake it. It's how people say hello."

She gingerly bends down and places the cast-iron frying pan on the stone floor; cautiously she steps into the small circle of light in the middle of the room and extends her hand as well. He grips it tightly in his own, and something tugs at her gut as suddenly, quickly, he pulls away.

"I'm Flynn." He says, and for the life of her she can't understand the look in his eyes as he glances at her and then away, out the window. "Flynn Rider."

"I'm Rapunzel."


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n: **GUYS ITS SPRING BREAK. that means i can write! actually, i would really like to update a lot on this story, so i can get into the juicy action. i have too much build-up. meh.

it also means i can finallyfinally update my other Tangled story, _Knots_, so look out for that as well.

reviewers you guys are amazing, and your feedback and comments help keep me going! thank you: shortygirl333, WickedSong, Alltangledup95, 26ja, Singing Muse, Princess Shahrazad, and PampleMousse07 :)

* * *

He feels like hell; mostly because of the way she believes him.

His story is shabby at best and absolutely horrendous at worst; it's riddled with plot holes and stretched to the breaking point of believability ("Uh, yeah, I have to leave soon. The people? Coming after me? Oh. They don't function well at night. Wouldn't want your mother finding out about me, anyway"); and right now he is branching off in so many different directions that he can't keep everything straight. Every time he looks at her eyes his stomach does a dead little flop; he is forced to glance away and drops a stitch in the tale he is weaving.

"You're very strange, you know." She hasn't let the frying pan leave her hand and he's taken up a spot by the window. Fifteen feet separate them. "Is everyone out there like you?"

"No." He's sick of this. It's been a day and he's already sick of it. "No, other people out there are a lot better than I am."

"Huh." She is drawing aimlessly on the dark floor with her finger. A faint ray of sun had pushed its way past the thick cloud cover, entering the one window and lighting up the spot where she sat. It made her blonde hair shimmer gold.

Gold. Gold like gems and gold like rubies and gold like coins glinting dully in the moonlight—

"What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"You know." She makes a sort of general motion with her head which he doesn't really understand; frustrated, she gets to her bare feet and navigates her way across the dead space in the middle of the floor, passing dangerously close to where he's pushed up against the wall, half-bathed in shadow. The window is open. He can feel the slight breeze from his left.

"Out there." She says, leaning forward until her upper body is hanging out the window and he has to stop himself from reaching forward and dragging her back inside.

"I don't get it." He says after a moment. "Why do you keep talking like you've never been outside before? I mean, come on. You can't have lived in this place your whole life, that's ridiculous!"

He eyes the dark walls, the small kitchen, the stairs leading circular up to the loft and the ceiling he can barely see; fabrics of blues and greens and reds hang down in long sheets; the bright splash of color is startling.

Dark and drab. Even he'd be better at decorating.

When she doesn't respond his eyes move back to here where she stands, outlined in sunlight, looking down across the now-five-feet that separate them with a look of longing and sadness and ashamedness—such that he has never seen all bottled up in one person before. He frowns. "You've…you've never left the tower?"

She shakes her head, looking back out the window and fiddling with a strand of hair.

"Why? You have to be seventeen—"

"Eighteen, in a week."

"Well, I left home when I was eleven."

"Eleven?" She sounds shocked. "What about your mother?"

Oh no. He is not getting into that, not here, he didn't even mean to let the eleven thing slip—"I'm just saying that you have the age and authority to leave here, strike out on your own. You know-get into bar fights, runaway, that sort of stuff." (_Ignore the fact_, _Rider,_ he thinks, _that everything you just said goes against your employer's wishes. Just. Ignore it._)

"I can't." She stares dejectedly at him.

"Why not?"

"It's complicated."

"I've got time." As soon as he says it he realizes he doesn't. The sun is beginning its slow descent and his stomach is eager for dinner (not that the hunk of bread that Rapunzel graciously offered him for lunch wasn't fantastic). She says nothing, so the point is moot, but he can't help but feel that he is missing a very, very big puzzle piece.

"Look, I, ah, I have to go." He says finally, after a long pause. He stands and as he does she backs away a few steps. "I wouldn't want you getting in trouble or anything."

"Yeah."

"Plus those people after me don't come out at night. Like I said."

"Of course."

"I mean, not that staying here wouldn't be nice. It'd be great. It's a great place." (Lie.)

"Are you coming back?" she says it in a rush and her voice is small and he imagines for a moment that he is her, eighteen years in a tower with only her mother for company and nothing, not one piece of information about the outside world.

"Sure. Tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I have to hide. Hide from the people. Who are after me."

He makes for the open window to climb down when she says, "Flynn," and it's the first time she's said it all day, "here."

"What are you…?"

Nimbly she sidesteps him and, reaching back for her hair, throws a large loop of it across a hook hanging above the window in wrought-iron. It takes a moment, but the hair catches and tumbles out over the side of the tower. She still has several feet of it swirled around her ankles.

"Oh."

"If you slide down on my hair, its faster. I mean, that's how mother gets down."

"Won't it…you know. Hurt?"

She laughs for the first time and it bubbles up around her lips and leaves a smile in its wake. "No, silly. I've got plenty. And it's super-strong."

"What is with your hair, anyway?"

"You ask a lot of questions, do you know that?"

"Only because you are so bad at answering them." He responds with a smirk.

"You can climb up my hair, too."

"That's just not right." He steps onto the ledge and takes a firm hold of the hair, which feels slippery and smooth beneath his grasp.

Before he can blink he's sliding down, the ground rushing to meet him, and a sad, sad face still peering down at him from the window above.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n:** GUYS I WROTE TWO CHAPTERS. i'm uploading the next one right after this one. yay! things are picking up. she is almost out of the tower. swear to goodness.

thank you reviewers! gah, i swear, you guys are amazing. i say it every time and will continue to. thank you to: Princess Shahrazad, Romance and Musicals, bookworm0492, boyslikegirls21, PampleMousse07, and littlelionluvr (your name reminds me of mumford and sons, who are awesome-and yep, they will leave super soon!) :) thank you so much, guys, for taking the time to review!

onward.

* * *

"So, darling, how was your day?"

Rapunzel nearly drops the teacup she is fussing with. She sets it down on the counter abruptly and adds a few more small spoons of sugar to the dark liquid. The white grains sink slowly to the bottom and she stands there for a moment, watching as they settle along the cracked china; mostly she is buying time. When she feels she has calmed down enough she gingerly picks up the worn cup once more and heads to the small, square dining table. It shakes in her hand as she sets it down before her mother, whose sharp cheekbones stand out prominently in the light from the two candles that sit close to the center of the slab of dark mahogany.

The wood is the same color as the floor and the walls and the ceilings, but the darkness seems to hit her more than normal tonight as she moves back to the kitchen and picks up the large bowl of Hazlenut Soup her mother had fashioned earlier. She focuses extremely hard on the task at hand, watching the brownish, viscous liquid as it sloshes ever closer to the side of the pot.

"Rapunzel, dear, is something the matter?"

"What? Oh, no, nothing is." She forces a small smile as she sets the bowl down, fiddling with a loose strand of gold that never seemed to stay together with the rest. "Just tired, I guess."

"Oh?" Her mother is raising her eyebrows, and smiling slightly. "And why would that be, my flower? Did something happen today?"

"No!" It comes out too quickly and too forced and she almost, _almost_ slaps her hand across her mouth at her faux pas but instead smooths out her satiny, blue dress and sits primly across from her mother. "Nothing at all, Mother. I just cleaned the tower, is all."

"Ah. I see." Her mother spreads a cloth across her lap and takes the ladle from the soup bowl and moves some of the liquid into a smaller container in front of her. Not a drop spills. As she puts the ladle back she tips it towards Rapunzel, so it slides around the outside of the pot.

She grasps the metal firmly and spoons out her own helping, only several large drops blot the table by the time she's done.

"Let's try to be a little neater, dear, shall we?"

"Yes, Mother."

An uncomfortable silence descends upon the tower room, and in the light from the two flickering candles Rapunzel can make out only her mother.

"Dear, you aren't eating. Is the soup bad?"

"What? Oh, no!" She picks up her clunky wooden spoon and immediately shovels several gulps down her mouth, with a feeling that she will regret it later. "No, it's wonderful. Thank you for making it."

"A little surprise, every once and awhile, is merited, my flower. Besides, I know how you love Hazlenut Soup."

Her smile is small and forced again. She lets the spoon settle back against her wooden bowl after several bites and twists her fingers uncomfortably beneath the table.

The secret is like a tangible thing pushing against the roof of her mouth from her stomach and below. She fears if she swallows anymore soup she will throw up, but she also fears that if she opens her mouth for any reason that the secret will spill out of her and there will be nothing she can do to stop it.

_Mother, a man came to the tower today. I've never seen a man before._

"Well, Rapunzel, I'm afraid I will be away all tomorrow again."

_He was very beautiful. Handsome, I mean. Do you call men handsome or beautiful, Mother?_

"Some urgent business to be taken care of."

_He was real, Mother, and he didn't try to eat me._

"I would like, dear, for the tower to be in a better state when I get home tomorrow."

_How did he find us, Mother? He's coming back, you know. He's strange. Are all people like that? _

"I know you said you cleaned it, but I can see a mess on the kitchen floor. Honestly, Rapunzel, did you think I wouldn't notice? What were you doing?"

_I was talking to Flynn Rider. _

"I was cleaning my loft, mostly."

"Well, dear, tomorrow, as I said—"

_No. I can't tell you about him, Mother. Because if I do I will never see him again, or hear about the world. I will be alone in here forever, Mother. I want to see the world. And not just from my window—in person._

"—be more productive! I ask very little of you, Rapunzel."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

_Please don't be angry with me._


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n:** here we go.

* * *

"Blondie! Let down your hair!"

She drops the red powder she normally uses for art, and it spills in a great crimson cloud over her entire vanity, little, light particles floating up into empty air. She cringes, because now it looks like something died all over one side of her room, and she will have to clean it up before Mother gets home; then, she looks up.

"Eek!"

Her right cheek is dyed a bright, bright ruby, spattered unevenly across her cheekbones and effectively covering most of her freckles across her nose. She glares at the paintbrush.

_Mother always puts a little powder on her cheeks, _she thinks in dismay, rummaging across her vanity for some water or a cloth, or anything to get the mess off her face, _Doesn't she use a paintbrush to do it?_

"Blondie?"

"Coming!" She yells, but doesn't know if it's loud enough. "One minute—"

She dives away from her vanity and across the floor, tumbling down the tower steps and barreling sideways into the kitchen. She knocks over the pot, again, where the trash is kept, and it spills to the floor, apple cores and parsnip tops and crusts of bread. She ignores it, heading straight for the small rag that hangs atop the water pump. In a moment it is between her teeth and in two she has the pump moving up and down; in three the water is spilling out from the faucet and she is pushing the small rag beneath it. It soaks through and she slaps it on her face, scrubbing violently.

She hears noises from down below; sprinting back to her loft and the mirror, she quickly flings the rag onto her bed, where the wet seeps through her thin, summer comforter. The garish red powder is gone, but her cheeks are scrubbed raw—maybe a little pale pink, to cover that up—

"Hey." There is a voice and she is so startled by it that she trips backwards, almost tumbling off the loft overhang but managing just in time to hook her foot under a taunt piece of hair. Her head hangs over empty space. In her view she sees Flynn as he climbs up and over the window's edge, panting. "Hey, I thought we had a relationship established on trust, here, and I wouldn't have to climb that stone again." He chuckles.

"Sorry!" She says, readjusting her grip on her hair. "Sorry, I, um, had an accident, with my paint and—"

"Why are you hanging upside down?"

If she could paint that look he was giving her and hang it on the wall she would laugh everyday for years to come.

"I don't know, really." She pulls herself back to the safety of her loft and smooths out her dress, a summer green today, with looping sleeves and a flowing skirt, a bit of red in the front. She wants to glance in the mirror once more but he is down there waiting and she starts off at a brisk pace towards the great room below.

The sun is bright outside; she loves days like today, where she opens the window and throws back the heavy, red curtains covering her paneled glass and light fills the whole tower. He's standing where he climbed up still, as if unsure of entering further.

"I'm sorry, you could have been caught out there." She pushes her hair behind her ears, feeling the weight of it spread out behind her.

"Caught?" He seems confused. "Oh! Caught. Yes. Those nasty brigands. Just plain evil, nothing you can do, really." He's rubbing the back of his neck, peering up at her with one of his unreadable looks, when he says, "Are you feeling ok? Your cheeks are really red."

She flushes, which she assumes does not help the situation. "Yes, I'm feeling fine."

"Oh good, because I brought you something."

"You…brought me something?" She is confused. No one has ever brought her anything, except the occasional (and extremely rare) gift from her mother. Her stomach flutters as Flynn pulls the strap of his satchel around and reaches inside.

"It's not much, but I figured that you probably don't have a lot anyway, being cooped up here, and all—"

He pulls out a book. A worn, dog-eared, yellow-paged book whose title is so faded she can hardly read it. She squints down at it as he lets his satchel drop back to his side.

"The…Adventures…of…Flynnigan Rider…." She says slowly. "Hey, Flynn, you didn't tell me you had your own book."

"Oh, it's—uh it's not mine, per say. My…well, my parents, they named me. After the guy in this book."

"Why?"

"Well." He thinks for a moment, and in the quiet a bird chirps, but it is not a crow, rather, one of those little blue songbirds that occasionally flit past her window. "Well, he was rich. He had enough money to do anything that he wanted, go anywhere he wanted to go."

"Oh."

"Just 'oh'?" Flynn frowns and she shrugs.

"Money just doesn't seem all that important to me."

"Oh."

"Now you sound like me!" she smiles, in an attempt to lighten the mood, because Flynn's whole face suddenly went dark. "Come on, let's go read it. The best spot's upstairs. I'll tell you if Flynnigan is like you or not."

When she sits on the overhang peeking out into the main room, her loft and bed behind her, the red-covered vanity still sitting forlornly to one side, she pats the spot next to her expectantly. Her bare feet dangle over empty space as Flynn comes to sit down; three feet separate them as she opens the book to the first page. On it a man is holding a gleaming sword.

"Is that him?" she asks, pointing down to the book on her lap. Flynn peers over.

"Yep."

"He looks nothing like you."

"What are you talking about? We both have superhuman good looks."

"Correction. He has superhuman good looks."

"What? That is—that is horrendous—how—how could you even suggest that he is better looking than me?"

"…"

"Stop laughing right now. I know it's hard to be by this much handsome, Blondie, but you are going to have to deal."

She smiles up at him as the laughter stops and finds he is much closer than before, his shoulder pressed up against hers, his face angled towards her own. "Here." She says suddenly, putting the book on his lap. "Read it to me."

"Out loud?"

"With voices."

He looks dubious but flips past the picture to the first page which has a very big 'CHAPTER ONE' printed across the top. He takes a breath, as if about to begin the first sentence, but then pauses. Leaning across his shoulder, she sees the motion of his chest as he says, "Hey, Blondie, listen."

"Hm?"

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow, why don't…why don't I take you out of here?"

"What?" she gasps and shoots backwards, almost falling off the overhang until he catches her; she thinks his hands stay clasped around her shoulders a moment longer than necessary but can't tell. "Leave the tower?"

"Yeah."

"That's crazy. I could never leave."

"Why not?"

"I like it in here."

"Sure."

"No, I do! And Mother—Mother would be furious if I left."

"Just for the day. I'll show you around. You'll be back before nightfall."

She bits her lip. She can feel the warmth on her toes in the empty air from where the sunlight hits them. Somewhere outside her window there is a waterfall splashing clear and blue onto the ground beneath. Somewhere out there there are trees, large and green and waiting to be climbed. Somewhere out there is more people, more things, more places waiting to be discovered. Somewhere out there is life.

"What do you say, Blondie? One afternoon."

"What about the people coming after you?" she whispers through a pounding that is racing through her head to match the beating of her heart.

"I think they got thrown off my trail. Gave up, and all that."

"Oh." The pounding is getting louder. More persistent. A bird sings its song outside and she can hear the delicious melody. "We'd…we'd be back before Mother came back? Before nightfall?"

"Scout's honor."

"What? I need you to promise."

"Promise? Why? You don't trust me?"

Why do his eyes look like he wants her to say yes? She shakes her head. "No. I just want you to promise. Because when I promise something, I never, ever break that promise." She pauses, for effect. "Ever."

"Fine, then, I promise."

The pounding is a word that's drumming like a butterfly heartbeat against her skull. Live. Live. Livelive_livelivelive_—

"Tomorrow." It's a sort of whisper and she gives a small smile. It grows, contagious, on her face and his. She lets out a peal of laughter, nearly jumping to her feet.

"Tomorrow, I'll see the world!"


	9. Chapter 9

**a/n:** hello, everyone! it's been forever, and i blame AP testing...i'm really sorry! i have two chapters today, and i'll probably update later or tomorrow to make up for the long wait.

thank you reviewers! thank you: WickedSong, ZOMG TOMORROW, Romance and Musicals, boyslikegirls21, PampleMousse07, littlelionluvr, Silverbellsb, Coco Rocks, and Princess Shahrazad. You guys rock :)

here we go.

* * *

"Are you coming, Blondie?"

Frankly, he's tired of waiting. She's been standing up there, just at the edge of her window, for nearly half-an-hour; he sees her shift her weight from one foot to the other but she doesn't answer. He sighs, kicks at a loose stone, and paces backwards, towards the little path that he's managed to clear to and from the tower amidst the overgrown monster of a garden surrounding it.

"Come on, Blondie, we don't have all day." He mutters under his breath. Her mother had seemed pretty adamant on the whole 'don't let her leave the tower thing,' and he would hate to see what would happen if she found out he was.

Taking her out of the tower, that is.

He turns around, shielding his eyes from the sun just breaking through the morning cloud cover to glance up at where she stands. Her loose dress flutters around her ankles in the breeze, and her hair, tossed over a single iron hook, tumbles over and to the ground, where it barely brushes the thick, course grass.

"Rapunzel." The name sounds foreign on his tongue. It shakes her out of whatever reverie she was in, and, suddenly looking more determined, she grips her hair, takes a step, bites her lip, and then she is flying towards the ground, yellow and gold yielding underneath her clenched fists as she slides, down, down, down—

"Woh wait—hey, Blondie, wait—" He sprints forward because he has visions of her and several broken bones and him hanging from a noose somewhere, maybe from that iron hook up above him because that seems like something her mother would do; he's so occupied with thoughts like that that he doesn't even really care that she crashes awkwardly into his back, knocking the wind out of him and sending them both tumbling into a pile of limbs on the grass.

"Ow, ow, ow—" she's saying, scrambling to her feet and rushing backwards to unhook her hair from the tower window; it comes up and over and falls in a golden wave, mimicking her fall in every way, including coming to a stop right on top of him.

"Flynn, Flynn, are you ok?" she sounds frantic but muffled. He can't think about anything much except the pain in his back and how, despite the nearly seventy feet of it he must have piled on his person at the moment, her hair is incredibly light.

"Yeah." He says after a moment, pushing himself to his feet and trying to be careful. The gold falls off him, shimmering, and he steps away, towards the thick underbrush. "I think so. Yeah."

"Are you sure?" she brushes her loose hair back from her face.

"Yeah. You're very graceful."

"Ha. Funny."

"Well, look down then, Blondie."

"Why? Are you sure you're ok, Flynn…?" She is speaking quickly, looking down with an odd sort of expression on her face.

He can't help but smile, even as his back aches and the reality of the situation hits him, because right now she is moving her bare toes in the grass and kneeling to run her hands through it and turning in wide circles to take in the world around her, sun shining on her face as she steps hesitantly forward.

"I can't believe I did this."

"Yeah, Blondie, we should get going—"

"I can't believe I did this!"

"Ok, yeah, it's great, but we really need to—"

"Mother would be so furious."

"I can't argue with that."

"But what she doesn't know won't kill her, right?"

"We'll be back before nightfall if we go now—"

"Oh my gosh. This would kill her."

"Blondie!" he takes her by the shoulders. "A little rebellion is good. You'll be fine. Trust me."

"I don't—I mean—" she looks back up at the tower window and Flynn thinks that some habits just are too hard to break. He steps around her and takes in his hands a mass of gold, motioning for her to pick up the rest. She doesn't move, just stares at him a little listlessly.

"Do you trust me, Blondie?"

"I don't…"

"Do you trust me?"

She bites her lip. He's surprised it isn't swollen yet. "Yes."

"Then come on."


	10. Chapter 10

**a/n: **bam.

* * *

She likes the way the dappled shade falls on him—he's all hawk-nose and bright eyes—but when he catches her staring she quickly looks away, readjusting her grip on her hair and trying not to step on anything sharp or pointed.

"Hate to break it to you, Blondie, but you kind of live in the middle of nowhere."

"I never noticed."

"Well, someone had to tell you."

"Where are we going anyway?"

Flynn, grappling one-handed with the gold hair he is holding, pushes a branch back for her to walk under, and suddenly they are in a short space of tunnel, empty and barren, covered by ivy on the other side.

"Do you know what a castle is?"

"Of course I know what a castle is."

"Oh really?"

"Really."

"What is it then?"

"It's the place where the king and queen live."

"Yeah, well, if we get far enough we can see it."

"There's a castle near here?"

"A whole capital."

"What's it like?"

"Well, uh, it sits on a lake. And it's sort of hilly. With the castle at the highest point, and the slums by the water's edge."

"Slums?"

"Poorer parts."

"Did you grow up by the castle?"

"No, I—well, I grew up in the slums."

"Oh."

She doesn't quite know how to respond to that and is thankful when they push their way through the hanging ivy because suddenly she doesn't want to talk anymore. It's a forest, trees and bushes and flowers, except this forest is nothing like the one that she has stared at for seventeen years from her tower window. This forest has space, and looks well-groomed yet wild. _It's almost as if_, she thinks suddenly, pausing in breath and step, _someone made my forest grow wild and ugly and harsh._

Stupid. The only person she knows is Mother, and Mother doesn't have the power to do that.

"This way." Flynn says, breaking the awkward silence. She thinks it's sunnier on this side of the world, and she loves the warm feel on her face as she follows him in a leftward direction. They come to a path, small and well worn, and he takes up residence on it like he has done so several million times before.

"Well, Blondie, I never did ask about your hair." He shrugs underneath the load he is carrying to draw attention to it.

"Yep."

"Oh," he draws it out, making his eyebrows dance in a ridiculous way that makes her roll her eyes and smile. "I see how it is. I'm not supposed to ask about the hair."

"Nope."

"Well, what about your Mother?"

"Nu-uh."

He shrugs, but there is something guarded and hidden behind his eyes. She wonders what he's hiding, but then wonders if that is paranoia, and so stops that line of thinking all together. Instead she focuses on how much the world is not like her mother told her.

The path takes a sharp curve right, merging with a larger one which is lined on both sides by thinning trees and in some places by a worn, old wooden fence. He begins heading down the road, and has to tug her forward, because she has just got her first really good look at sky—blue, cerulean, azure, sapphire, teal, an expanse far and wide and unbroken in all directions.

"Wow." She wants to reach out and steal the color to paint her tower in. "Wow, it's amazing."

"It really is, huh?"

"Where does this road lead, anyway?"

"If you continue this way, the capital."

"Wow!"

She thinks he looks back to smile at her, but at the moment a thunderous sound is coming down the road from behind them. After the tranquil forest it sounds like an ungodly cacophony, and she jumps, scared, squealing as she pulls Flynn behind her to the side of the road, tumbling among the trees and roots there.

He has to roll quickly to the side to keep from crushing her against the tree, and she tries in vain to calm her breathing as the noise grows louder and louder.

"Shh, hey, it's fine, Blondie, really. It's a carriage, see?"

She frowns as a blocky sort of shape enters her vision, like a box on wheels, drawn by one very old creature on four legs, whose dejected head hangs down by his knees as, resigned to his fate, he pulls the thing along.

"Is that a horse?" she whispers from her hiding place, feeling slightly ridiculous at how scared she got but also incredibly excited at this new thing.

"No. That's a donkey."

"It looks so sad."

"It's old as hell."

She peers at the yellow box as it passes. The paint is peeling, and watered, faded flowers line the corners. A big, brown plaque declares M M GE T UDE'S TR VELIN FOR TUN S.

"Is that even English?" Flynn frowns.

"I think it's supposed to say Mama Gertrude's Traveling Fortunes."

"I guess so…"

The little decrepit thing rolls to a sudden halt, right by their hiding place. Rapunzel hides another squeal, pushing farther back into the tree, and into Flynn's chest, in the process.

A door in the back shoots open, slamming against the wood and coming to a close again. "Stupid door," the mumbled words are barely audible as it is pushed open again and the oldest women that Rapunzel has ever seen steps out.

She hunkers down the little steps leading from the back door to the ground, back bent and knees knobby beneath her old, flowered dress. Beads circle her neck and a kerchief circles her head, and her hands, withered with pits and veins, plant themselves firmly on her expansive hips as she stops before the trees. Flynn pushes Rapunzel back into the shadows.

"I sensed there vere two lost souls on the side of the road." She has an odd sort of accent, lilting. 'Were' sounded like 'vere.' Rapunzel bites her lip.

"Vell, don't be shy. Mama Gertrude vill tell you your fortunes, heavens know you need it."

"Tell us our fortunes?" Rapunzel whispers as quietly as she can. Flynn is still frowning. She's trying to ignore how closely pressed against his chest she is.

"You know," he mutters back, "tell us what will happen in our futures. Mumbo-jumbo, voodoo and hoodo, that sort of thing."

"Don't leave an old lady vaiting out here!"

"Should we do it?"

"I don't know, Blondie, it's just a load of crap."

"But I've never had my fortune read before!"

"But—oh don't look at me like that—I mean—oh fine, come on."

She feels his hands on the small of her back as he pushes her forward, from beneath the trees and into the road. The old lady smiles a toothy smile.

"I knew you vere there vaiting, dears. Mama Gertrude vill read your fortune for a small fee."

"Of course." Flynn snorts, still frowning. "There's always a fee."

Rapunzel watches as Mama Gertrude's shrewd eyes take in the hair both she and Flynn are holding. Something flickers there, but she can't tell what it is. Instead a gnarled hand beckons them into the little carriage.

"I can't believe this." Flynn mutters.

"Stop it." Rapunzel hits him on the shoulder, eagerly following the old woman into the carriage.

It seems bigger on the inside than on the outside; a round, rickety table holding one flickering candle sits in the middle. To one side, a bent chair, austere and old. To the other, two seats lined with velvet cushions. Rapunzel eagerly takes one, smoothing her dress and tucking her feet beneath her, finally letting go of her hair. Flynn takes the one next to her, dumping his own load rather angrily onto his lap.

"Don't be mad, Flynn, this will be fun!" She tries to lighten the mood but Flynn just rolls his eyes.

"I don't believe in the mumbo-jumbo alakazam garbage, sorry."

"Cynical young man." Gertrude shuffles to the severe chair and, with some jostling, manages to sit down without knocking over the candle. Rapunzel smiles in what she hopes is a kindly manner, and then peers sideways a Flynn, trying not to laugh at the way his legs come up above the table as he tries to fold his large body into the small chair. "Doubting the magic."

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Vhose fortune am I reading first?" Gertrude ignores him, smiling wide, and staring only at Rapunzel.

"Oh, oh, mine, please, mine—" Rapunzel eagerly leans forward, placing her elbows on the table and her head in her hands.

"Yes, child, yes," she reaches across the table to finger a loose piece of hair that had spilled over onto the wooden surface. "Yes, your fortune first."

Rapunzel watches as Mama Gertrude pulls from some unknown place a stack of cards; they are pretty things, with an intricate pattern on the back that she's having a hard time making out. Mama Gertrude shuffles them, hands expertly splitting and cutting and pushing the deck together; she lays them out flat against the table, in a wide splash of blue.

"Pick three, child."

Rapunzel thinks its strange that she's calling her child, because she is most definitely not her mother—in fact, she wonders just whose 'mama' Gertrude really is—but the cards are calling and she quickly picks three cards, one from the middle, one from the right, and one from the left. The cards are pulled from her hands. Gertrude flips one onto the table.

On it, the sun, smiling down upon a field of golden flowers.

Rapunzel frowns.

"The sun. You have an abundance of energy. Great vitality. Happiness vill come to you, but only at a price, and only after you lose someone you once called friend."

"Oh." Her voice sounds small. The second card is flipped.

On it, a lady, ethereal, floating over the earth below.

"The vorld. Events in your life have started to near completion, but not yet a conclusion. Hesitation vill rack you in the future."

The third card is flipped.

"The tower."

Rapunzel draws a quick intake of breath and Flynn tenses beside her.

On it, a tower, struck by a bolt of lightning, falling, broken, to the earth.

"Sudden changes out of your control will soon occur. A realization that vill tear your vorld apart."

Rapunzel's heart is beating fast but she doesn't know why.

"Ok, ok, enough of this, can we go Rapunzel?"

"Flynn? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine—"

"You do not vish to draw cards?" Mama Gertrude's raspy breath causes the candle flame to flicker.

"No. No, not really."

"But Flynn!"

"Blondie, she told you nothing about your future. She basically told you what you already know. She might as well have told you that your hair is gold! Because it is!"

"For you, only two cards I feel are needed." Gertrude's face suddenly goes dark.

"Fine. You know what, fine, if it will shut you all up—" Flynn reaches forward, past Rapunzel's three card and towards the line. He draws two, relatively close to each other, and slams them roughly on the table. Gertrude flips them over simultaneously.

"The hanged man."

Rapunzel stops breathing.

"And death."

"You know what, Flynn, I don't want to be here anymore." Her chest is tight. "Flynn, let's go. Please, let's go—"

"Not without payment, child."

"Where'd your accent go?" Flynn sounds accusing.

"Payment child, for telling you your fortune—just a song, a song is all I need—a song and some magic, child—"

"Flynn!"

"Come on!"

Flynn grabs her hair and pushes her out the door. The bright light of the road is blinding after the little carriage, and her bare feet slap painfully against the road as she races forward, away from the lady and the words echoing behind her.

"A song and youth! I just want a song!"


	11. Chapter 11

**a/n:** hey guys, it's been awhile but i'm back! summer is almost here. finally. i want to thank my reviewers, all those who continue to read this despite long absences-i have two chapters for you today, then chapter thirteen, which is the climax of part one. so. almost to the good parts!

thank you: PampleMousse07, Romance and Musicals, milleniumfalken, boyslikegirls21, WickedSong, RedHeaded4Always, and TangledGirlForever-seriously, you guys, your reviews are amazing. thank you thank you! :)

* * *

"I'm sorry. That didn't go as well as I'd hoped…"

Her feet hurt. She's feeling sick and feverish and can't really figure out why until she closes her eyes and sees an old woman outlined against an old cart with a word on her lips she does not wish to hear—

"Blondie?"

"What? Oh. Sorry—I thought—" _the world would be different somehow and how did that old lady know and those cards and why aren't you asking about it_—"I thought it was lovely."

"Really?" He looks surprised. "That's not what I expected to hear. Not after that crazy lady." He does a sort of squiggly thing with his fingers up around his face and she can't help but manage a small smile.

She doesn't want to say it, but she's grateful to be back in her tower.

She doesn't want to say it, but she doesn't want to have to go outside again.

"I mean, a song? Magic? What the hell was she talking about?"

Rapunzel shrugs. Her feet, though pounding from her expedition, carry her over to the window and she looks out at her little world, wild and overgrown. "I'm not sure. Is magic common?"

"I told you, Blondie, magic is crap."

"But if there was magic, some way, some how, and you saw it with your own eyes—would you believe it then?"

"I dunno, I mean—"

"Would you?" she turns back to face him, and she can tell he can't understand why she is so adamant upon this one point.

"I guess so." Is the response after a moment's pause. It'll have to do.

Her feet carry her to the kitchen nook, where she fiddles around with the pots and pans there, then to the table where she has dinners with mother, then to her stairs as if to head to her loft—she can't stay still. Flynn is sitting on the ground, watching her progress warily.

"I have to say," he says after she has made her second trip to the window to look at the darkening sky; a heavy, steel-gray cloud covering is rolling in, "the look on you're face when you were out there—that only makes the climb back up to this place slightly less annoying. Slightly."

"Flynn, aren't you scared?"

"About what?"

"The cards she drew for you."

"Not this again."

"She drew a tower for me. A tower!"

"Yes, ok, she drew that, and I was surprised. But the others? A world? That has nothing to do with you!"

"I was seeing the world for the first time."

"…ok, other than that. That was another coincidence. I mean, the sun! The sun has absolutely nothing to do with you!"

She bites her lips at this, turns around so she isn't facing him anymore, and lets her fingers run along the worn wood of the window frame.

"No. I guess it doesn't."


	12. Chapter 12

**a/n:** it's the last chapter before the climax that is chapter thirteen! and it's long!

(also, please excuse tense-mishaps. sometimes when i write in present tense i randomly switch to past tense because i'm weird. hopefully i caught it all, but if not. sorry!)

bam.

* * *

He assures her that today they will finally get to the capital; however, he sounds a lot more confident than he actually feels.

_I mean_, he thinks, lifting up the corner of his lip and scratching his nose rather dejectedly as Blondie readies her leap from the window above, _first it was that damn fortuneteller. Then the hair-caught-in-tree incident, and after that the rains happened, and then that carriage accident—_

It's as if somebody wants to keep her as far away from the capital as possible, which makes no sense whatsoever. He doesn't really believe in a higher power, or in karma, or in anything other than happenstance, but this whole thing is starting to get really odd.

And convincing Blondie to come out of the tower again after each one of those things happened was a battle in itself. He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, spinning on the spot in his worn boots, trying to figure out everything in his head.

The mother. Did she know?

Regular anonymous payments. Other than that he had seen neither hide nor hair of her.

"Flynn?" The tap on his shoulder draws him from his thoughts. He hadn't even heard her come down. "Are you ready? Maybe we'll actually get there today, huh?"

"Let's hope so."

"I didn't mind the rain so much." She begins as they start out along the familiar sort of path he has carved through the underbrush on his many trips to the tower. "It felt nice. Like a shower, only outside."

"Sometimes your comments amaze me."

She frowns, sticking her tongue out.

"Watch it," he says, holding a branch out of the way for her as she walks past, struggling with her golden load that slips between her fingers like water, "your face will stay like that."

"Really?"

"No."

"Well then why would you say that?"

"It's just—"

"It's a mean thing to say. If my face was stuck like that forever, I'd be ugly."

He wants to correct her and say she'd be beautiful, even looking like that—

What. The. Hell. He shakes his head and rubs at his eyes, absentmindedly picking up a trail of gold that she's missed and trying to figure out if he's right in the head.

Suddenly he feels the need for a drink. Something tough, and manly. The bar he frequents in town is too far away for his liking—he needs ale, now, fast, before he turns all the way sappy and none of the way thief—and besides, he _knows_ people there, people who would wonder where he's been and what he's been up to and _hey Flynn, why haven't you paid that debt you owe me, huh_ or _where's that bounty you promised, Rider_?

Ok, so he lied to her when he said no one was after him. No one in the general vicinity of her tower was after him. So actually then, it wasn't a lie, just not the whole truth—

"Flynn? Are you ok?" Rapunzel looks back at him. "I didn't mean it. You're not mean. I was just joking."

"What? Oh, naw, I'm fine Blondie."

"You're just so quiet—oh hey! Hey! Look!" she veers off the path, nearly into a rosebush, and he has to stop his heart attack and remind himself that he is Flynn Rider, dammit, number one thief and all that. He follows her, tugged forward by the pull of her hair like it's a leash. When she emerges from the overgrowth she has dirt on her face, which he wonders vaguely how she got there, and she's holding a pinecone.

"What." He deadpans, trying to ignore the sudden urge he has to wipe his thumb over her cheekbone and the soil stuck there.

" 'What'? What do you mean 'what'?" she's dropped all her hair in her excitement and is bouncing around like a child. He thinks it will be a pain to clean all the grime out of that but then she shoves the thing under his nose and says, "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's a pinecone." He steps back on his heels, trying to get a good look of where the pine tree would be in this mess, but he can't see it. "A bird must have carried it from the main forest and dropped it here."

"A pinecone." She says the word reverently, holding the thing in her hands like it's porcelain. "So it comes from a tree?"

"It's a seed. Yes."

"Well then, that makes it more beautiful."

"I'm still not following." It looks like crap to him. Literally.

"Well, that something so small can turn into something so big. Life, and all that."

"I do believe you just went philosophical on me, Blondie."

She beams up at him and he can't understand this, this entire thing, her being excited about a _pinecone_ for God's sake, not one of those multi-colored flowers they saw open in the rain or the butterfly she found that day the carriage accident blocked the road and they had to turn around and come the long way back—no, what gets her excited is a pinecone.

"I just don't get you, Blondie." He says.

"Huh?" she blinks up at him and suddenly the hair he was holding has fallen to the floor and his hand is up at her cheekbone, thumb brushing over the soft skin there and wiping away the dirt; it hangs there, for a moment, and her eyes widen, and he realizes this is one of the stupidest things he has ever done so he takes a hasty step backwards, nearly tripping on an upturned root. His hand drops and he coughs uncomfortably.

For the first time since he was a kid he stumbles over his own words.

"I—uh—you had lips on—I mean dirt on the—cheek dirt and I—"

The pinecone is still cradled loosely in her hand. Her green eyes are the widest he's ever seen them, and he thinks a blush is slowly making its way across her face.

"Are you hungry?" he finishes lamely, turning her around roughly, scooping up her hair, and wanting very badly some ale. "I'm hungry. I know a great place for lunch, it's on the way to the capital."

"Flynn—"

"Good! Let's go then."

* * *

"Do you smell that? Take a deep breath through the nose." He gets a strong whiff of body odor, alcohol, and the metallic stench of blood before he realizes that Blondie is not behind him. He frowns, steps backwards, and finds her standing outside of the dark tavern holding a pile of pinecones and looking rather lost.

"Where do I put them?"

"By the door…?" This whole thing is totally out of his comfort zone and he is in way over his head.

"But what if somebody takes them?"

"I don't think anyone wants your seeds." He cringes. That came out wrong.

She sets them gingerly by the door and finally follows him in. He tries to picture what the place looks like through her eyes—rough and bawdy and full of more people than she has ever seen before at one time. She holds her hair and steps closer to him, and he tries to ignore this. Instead he pats her arm rather stiffly and says, "No one here will hurt you."

At that moment someone flies into the wall next to him, and he can hear the crack of bone. Someone from the mass of bodies inside the tavern shouts, "You missed the door!"

To which someone else responds, "Oh well, he gets the point!"

There is a roar of laughter and he looks sideways. Blondie is pale as a sheet.

"Don't worry, we'll just get a drink and then we'll be gone…" he fades off, trying to find a good way through the crowds to the bar, all the while thinking that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He spies an opening and takes it, gingerly plucking Blondie by the sleeve and pulling her along behind him. He finds himself standing next to a man with one eye and a whole lot of tattoos.

"What's this doing here?"

Flynn looks up from ordering two ales to find the man on the other side of Blondie looking menacingly down his nose at her. She shrinks a little, and he's trying to figure out why, because the man is actually shorter than she is, until he sees the glint of something on the worn, wooden counter in the dim half-light of the flickering candles.

A hook. A brass metal hook stained with something that looks an awfully lot like blood.

Yep. This was a bad idea.

"Flynn?" she says uncertainly through the corner of her mouth, but the ale chooses that moment to arrive and he takes a sip of it, pure liquid courage.

"I said," that man repeats, "what's this doing here?"

"I'm not a 'this.'" Blondie snaps suddenly, harrumphing and reaching for the drink in front of her. The mug is worn and chipped and probably hasn't been washed in a year. Her hand closes around the rough grip and pulls it closer to her. "I'm a girl. My name is Rapunzel."

Flynn nearly chokes on his ale and takes another sip. It burns down his throat.

"Rapunzel?" Hook-Hand man frowns. "Never heard of ya. Are you an outlaw?"

"No. I told you, I'm a girl."

"We don't get many of those here."

"Well, you should be nicer. Your attitude probably scares them all away." Flynn coughs up a little of his drink back into his mug and chokes out:

"She didn't mean—"

But Hook-Hand is laughing heartily and he suddenly claps Blondie on the back, causing her to stagger forward into the wooden counter. "I like you. You got spunk."

"Thank you." She nods her head, and Flynn notices she is holding herself a little straighter and is looking a little less pale. She readjusts her grip on the handle of the mug, drags it forward, puts it to her lips, and swallows—

"PFFT—" she spits it out across bar, narrowly avoiding the tender behind the counter. She's coughing and he ignores the urge he has to give her unnecessary mouth to mouth.

"Are you ok?" Flynn takes another sip of ale for good measure. His pint's almost gone.

"I thought it was water." She manages in between coughs. On her other side Hook-Hand laughs again.

"You're a strange one. Water? In this place?" he chortles. "Not here, sweet thing."

Blondie frowns. She fiddles with a loose strand of hair. The rest is coiled like a golden cat around her feet, which is good because he doesn't want to draw attention to it. When he finishes his pint he calls for another. Hook-Hand takes the lull in conversation to peer closer at him through the darkness.

"Damn. If it isn't Flynn Rider. People up at the capital are saying you're dead!"

"Oh?" He grabs for the refill as it slides down towards him; out of the corner of his eye he sees Blondie tentatively trying another, smaller sip of the stuff. "And why is that?"

"Haven't seen you around. Stabbington Brothers have been on the lookout for you. People haven't seen them around either. Word is," Hook-hand scrapes his metal appendage across the wooden counter, leaving a gash, dragging himself closer to Flynn, "you three got into a fight near Hangman's Bluff, fell off and into the ocean, never to be seen again."

"Well, as you can see that is not the case."

Flynn doesn't want to tell him he's been hiding out close to Blondie's tower, taking baths in one of the forest rivers and taking food from unsuspecting passerby.

"You're kind of famous, aren't you?" Blondie laughs, and he looks down at her. She's sipping away at the drink. "This is good stuff. I like it."

"Ok, no more for you." He quickly drags the mug away.

"Still," Hook-Hand leans back to a standing position and tosses down his own drink, "wonder where those brothers are. Not to give you orders or anything, Rider, but I'd be on the lookout for them. They're a lot more brutal than you."

Flynn frowns.

"Yeah, I'll watch out. Thanks."

* * *

He's finished his third pint and he still wants to kiss her, so damn his plan because it sure as hell didn't work. He's done with this place; too many people actually _do_ recognize him here (he chalks it up to fortune and glory, because he has plenty of both and word gets around) for his liking. Blondie is engrossed in a conversation with Hook-Hand about something or another when Flynn tries to pull her away and the door slams open.

It's a hard slam. Hard enough to be heard through the mulling noise of people and the yelling and brawling, loud enough that an almost-quiet follows it. Flynn's head shoots up towards the door, where two figures are outlined in the light from outside—

Two large, imposing figures.

Two figures Flynn would recognize with his eyes shut.

"Shit." He grabs Blondie's hand, pulling her down hard below the lip of the bar and into the shadows. He hears the boot steps of the figures as they walk in.

"What? Flynn, what?" she's whispering loudly and he's sober enough to shush her.

"The Stabbington Brothers."

"Who?"

"They don't like me."

"Flynn?" she's whispering more quietly now, an urgent look on her face, "Flynn, what's wrong?"

He shakes his head mutely, thinking of all the stupid things he's done in his life and how this one might quite possible take the cake.

Blondie's mouth is set and she leans backwards, tugging on Hook-Hand's tunic. He bends down and she whispers something in his ear, something Flynn doesn't catch because he is too busy counting the footsteps.

_Onetwothreeonetwothree_—

Botched jobs. Botched jobs will always come back to haunt him, won't they?

"Flynn." She grabs his hand more firmly, "Do you trust me?"

He doesn't know what she's talking about.

"Do you trust me?" she whispers more urgently.

"Yes." He rasps back out.

"Then hang on." She nods resolutely, dragging him back to a standing position in front of the bar. She nods to Hook-Hand.

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?" The man roars, and Flynn has no idea where the hell it comes from. He staggers back into the tattooed man on the other side of him and mouths, 'What?' at Blondie but she's too busy smiling like an idiot—

"RAPUNZEL IS MY GIRL!" Hook-Hand advances closer, spittle flying from his open mouth. "MINE! SHE WILL NOT BE TAKEN BY SOMEONE LIKE YOU!"

"Ok, what a minute—" Flynn starts, wanting very badly to set him straight on the whole Blondie thing, but suddenly the world is awash in pain. Blackness is eating at the corners of his vision, and how in the name of all that is holy is he flat on his back?

Rapunzel screams.

All hell breaks loose.

Hook-Hand throws another punch, this time over Blondie to hit the tattooed man, who staggers backwards into another. Flynn, blinking stars out of his eyes, hears the crunch of bone and the man howls, turning on the closest thing, which happens to be a large, rather imposing giant of a human being.

"Sorry about that." Hook-Hand yells through the noise of the impeding bar riot.

"He's always wanted to be an actor." Blondie says brightly.

"Oh, he's brilliant." Flynn doesn't want to lift his head off the floor until someone almost steps on him and he shoots up quickly. Something warm and wet his pulsing down the front of his face and he tastes blood.

"Oops." Hook-Hand frowns. "I think I broke your nose. I was aiming for your cheek, sorry 'bout that…"

He feels butterfly touches on his face and tries to ignore the fact that Blondie is extremely close, a hand on his check, gently prodding his nose. "Ow," he hisses, shying away from even her light touch.

"It's ok. Let's get out of here, it'll be ok—" she turns back and gives Hook-Hand a kiss on the cheek, which Flynn feels jealous of even through the pain. "Thank you."

The man smiles widely. "Anytime, sweet thing. Anytime."

Flynn's head is exploding. He wants to go crawl into a corner and die somewhere but Blondie is pulling him to his feet and tugging him towards the door, somehow miraculously avoiding flying limbs and bodies and glasses and whatever else is being thrown. The door is still open, shedding a little light on the scene—through the haze of pain he can just barely make out two large figures cutting their way through the swatch of rioters in the middle of the tavern.

They do not see him.

He lets Blondie grab his hand and lead him from the tavern. "Stupid plan," he groans as the sun hits his face and he feels like a thousands hammers are pounding in his skull.

"What?" Blondie sounds confused, still yelling slightly over the noise of the tavern that filters through the open door.

She reaches down for a single pinecone before they leave, off the path and into the forest where hopefully no one will find them.

* * *

Flynn Rider is trying not to bemoan the loss of his good looks, because that is what this broken nose means. A lifetime of breathing problems and a crooked complexion.

Plus it still hurts like hell.

He thinks they are somewhere close to the entrance to her tower valley, hidden off the path in some clearing. It's the only thing that's making him feel slightly better, because the Stabbingtons won't find him here, but still.

The brothers shouldn't have been at that tavern in the first place. An off the beaten path establishment regulared by outcasts?

No. It had to be coincidence, but still.

He can't quite believe the turn his luck has taken since he met Blondie. Even the pile of gold he has stashed in that tree hollow at his camp isn't making him feel any better at the moment.

"Blondie?" he says through clenched teeth. "Can you stop pacing? You're making me sick."

She stops immediately, turning to look at him, her hair spread out around and behind her, catching the last golden rays of the sun. It seems to sparkle with a life of its own and he thinks he is going crazy.

She steps closer to where he is slumped up against a tree, bending down and reaching out a hand but then thinking better of it. She sits back. "I'm really sorry, Flynn. This is all my fault. When I asked Hook-Hand for a distraction, I didn't think he'd break your nose..."

He knows he's crazy when he still doesn't blame her.

"It's fine." He hisses. "I'll run to the capital tomorrow, get it set. It'll be good as new."

She bites her lip. He wonders why but opts instead to ignore her completely because she's been working havoc on him all day. He leans back and shuts his eyes.

"What if I told you I could fix it?"

"You? I'd be amazed." He tries to crack a grin but it comes out as more of a grimace. When she doesn't respond he peels back one eyelid and finds her fiddling with that loose strand of hair again.

"Rapunzel?" He doesn't know what makes him say her name, but he does. She starts. "What's wrong?"

"I'm going to fix you."

"O…kay…" He sits up and his world explodes and he tries not to vomit all over the grass. "Give it your best shot."

He's going to indulge her.

She still doesn't move. She's worrying at her lip and he wonders faintly what could possibly be wrong.

"Can you…promise me something?"

"Anything." He says simply.

This startles him. He is usually not a simple man.

"Promise…just…just don't freak out, ok?"

"Rapunzel, what on earth—" he can't stop saying her name. Bad sign. She shushes him impatiently, and that's when he finds that loose strand of hair she was playing with up against his nose. He breathes through his mouth rather uncomfortably and responds slowly, "Alright. I'm sure getting blood on your hair will help me."

"Be quiet."

He's about to retort but something is happening. He can't make out the words she's mumbling under her breath, but something is happening.

The roots of her hair begin to _glow_, a rich, bright yellow color, moving like something alive down the strands of gold to his nose. He feels something, not a pain, more of a tickle, and suddenly the hurt is gone and _dammit he can breathe again_—

She's done and the hair falls away, clean and bloodless, and he feels his face, which is also clean and bloodless, and suddenly he opens his mouth in a silent scream but then—

"Pleasedon'tfreakout."

So he swallows it. "I'm not going to freak out. Are you freaking out? No. It's just you have hair with wonderful magical qualities and I can breath through my nose again. That's all."

She tucks the loose strand behind her ear, looking rather sheepishly up through long eyelashes at him. "Now do you believe in magic?"

"I'm just really confused." He prods at his nose. The pain is gone. He feels like he could go run a mile.

"I have magic hair that glows when I sing." She says simply, messing with her dress now. "I don't know why. Mother says I've always had it—it's a special gift, that has to be protected."

"That explains the…" he's about to say _wish of your mother's that you stay inside_ but hurriedly stops himself by motioning to the length of her hair. She smiles a small smile.

"Mother said when I was young, people tried to cut it." For the first time she moves the mass away from her head and he sees a single strand that's shorter by far than the rest of her hair, and also decidedly more brown. "But once it's cut it changes color and looses its power. A gift like that, it has to be protected. That's why…"

"…you never left that tower." He finishes, looking backwards into the dense forest where her prison resides somewhere. His heart is still pounding; things are starting to fall into place with frightening alacrity.

"And you still go back."

"It's not like I've had very good experiences out here." She says sharply, then looks sad. "Sorry. I'm just…confused. Also."

There's an awkward moment where no one speaks. He considers asking her to sing the song loudly for him, because he wants to hear it, hear her, but decides against it, decides against asking anything related to her hair, because he doesn't understand it and doesn't want to understand it yet. Instead: "Most magic is crap. I never said all. Just most."

"Uh-huh." She sends a crooked grin his way.

Another silence. She is rubbing fitfully at her eyes, and he thinks that maybe _she_ thinks that he won't look at her the same way, now that he knows; but then, she wouldn't look at him the same way if she knew what he was doing, so instead he works to take her mind off it altogether—

"Eugene."

"What?" she looks up quickly at him, puzzlement in her eyes.

"My real name is Eugene Fitzherbert. A secret for a secret—seems a fair trade."

"Eugene?"

"Yeah. I thought Flynn Rider sounded better. For my line of work, and all."

"Did you name yourself after that book?"

"…maybe…"

She laughs and he finds himself laughing too but before things can get out of hand he stops. The sun is sinking fast.

"Come on, Rapunzel, we have to get you home." He stands, holding down a hand for her. "I'm sorry you couldn't get to the capital today."

"It's alright."

"Maybe next time."

"Better be next time." She scoops up her hair, which has returned to its normal hue. "And, for the record, I like Eugene Fitzherbert way better than Flynn Rider."

"You'd be the first."

Damn this feeling. Damn attachment. It would ruin everything.

"But thank you."


	13. Chapter 13

**a/n:** hey guys, i don't know how this chapter will be. i might go back re-haul it later. eh. so it's the climax of part one! don't worry, there is a whole lot more story to go. :D

thank you: Princess Shahrazad, boyslikegirls21, TangledGirlForever, PampleMousse07, and EugeneLoverRapunzel for reviewing! :) you guys are amazing, and i hope this chapter is alright! thanks again!

* * *

It is dark. She can't see anything, but: the feel of the wooden steps beneath her feet, the rough-hewn stone beneath her fingers; the smell of damp air mixed with lilacs and lavender (Mother's favorite perfume); the taste that is somehow lingering on her tongue from a meal she doesn't remember eating—hazelnut soup—; all these things tell her she is in the tower.

She doesn't need to see to know that.

Lifting her hand before her eyes (a task that, for some reason, takes her an unusually long amount of time) she can see nothing but black. She blinks, squinting and widening, but all that remains is the dark.

By the feel of things she is on the stairs leading down from her loft to the main circular room beneath her. Gingerly she slides one foot forward, feeling thick and sluggish, until it hits the edge of something and drops suddenly down, like a rock, to the step below. She follows with her other foot. Her mind flits like a hummingbird, and she has trouble focusing on this simple task—one foot two foot three foot four.

For a moment she forgets how many steps lead from her loft to the floor, which is odd because she has been counting them for nearly eighteen years. She thought for sure there had always been twelve, but this time she counts thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, twenty-five, twenty-six—"Maybe I've just been counting wrong all my life," she says to no one in particular, but the dark swallows up the words and she is left wondering if she ever spoke at all.

Finally she reaches the floor below, and the moment she does there is light. Not anything strong—a flickering candle by her foot, and she wonders why she did not see it before. She picks it up by the brass handle of the small plate it sits on, blinking rapidly. Its glow does not go far. It is swallowed up by black almost as soon as it escapes. Her breath causes the flame to waver more and she quickly moves it away from her face.

She squints into the dark, because at the edge of her little glow she can see something.

It's glistening faintly, a slight sheen that catches the light and reflects it back. She frowns, because it looks almost black. She knows that darkness cannot crawl and so, rather fearlessly, she steps forward, shedding a little more of her flame onto the mysterious substance. It turns a sudden crimson, a blanket of red, and her frown deepens.

Step forward.

Here something else is coming into view, but because she is still listless and lethargic, her thoughts pushing through honey to reach the surface of her mind, it doesn't register right away what it is; so, she continues on.

Step forward.

Pale, standing out against the red. Stained scarlet. Tips of fingers open as if reaching for something. For what?

Step forward.

_It's a hand_, she thinks, a second before she sees the arm it is connected to. Out of some macabre curiosity that has suddenly gripped her she takes another step step, causing the little flame to flicker uncontrollably for a moment, plunging her quickly into black before the bright yellow-orange comes back again.

_Arm_, she reflects, not noticing the red pooling up and around her bare feet, _shoulder, neck, head_—

The head is twisted at a wrong angle, she can't make out the face, so she bends down, hardly noticing the dark swatch her pale pink dress cuts through the crimson covering on the floor. Placing the candle in her opposite hand, she gingerly reaches down and pushes—

She screams, shooting backward, dropping the candle, screaming again because she doesn't think the darkness heard her the first time, and then she is shouting things, random things she does not know the meaning of—_flower mother help save please_—but mostly just _Eugene Eugene Eugene_ because she can't get the picture out of her head, the mouth gone slack, the face gone pale, the red dripping down the forehead and the hair matted to one side—the candle flame flickers momentarily and then is out, and she is shuttled quickly back to the darkness before, feeding off the air and blood and who-knows-what-else, the flame is springing back to life, eating the floorboards and the body despite her screaming—

Her lower back hits something, a wall where her stairs should have been, except there is nothing but open air and she is falling, falling, falling, backwards into an even darker sky, and only as she falls, his name still on her lips, does she realize that there is nothing long and heavy dragging her down—there is no gold, only short, choppy strokes—and she wonders why Mother must take everything she loves and then wonders at the thought and then wonders why she is still falling,

"Rapunzel."

falling,

"Rapunzel!"

falling,

"RAPUNZEL!"

She falls to the floor as her eyes shoot open. The chair she was on does not apologize, and she frowns. Getting to her feet, she wipes at the wetness on her cheeks. Trying to smooth out the crinkles in her dress, she takes a moment to get her bearings—the sun is setting, and her mother's annoyed voice is filtering in through the window.

"Rapunzel, really, I'm not getting any younger down here."

"Coming, Mother!" she shouts rather hoarsely, hoping it carries. She doesn't move, however. Her heart is still racing. Images float through her mind, blood and twisted necks and darkness, but also sun and green and light because of her trip outside with Eugene earlier that day.

She must have fallen asleep when she got home.

Which meant the tower was still a mess.

She's not one to curse but she can think of several choice words that Eugene would use if he were here. She races to the kitchen, scooping up dirty plates still there into the sink. With one pump hot water is spilling over them. She takes up the broom sitting by the pot that trash is thrown in and sweeps it rather half-heartedly across the floor. Stepping back to look at her handiwork, she sighs, blowing up a loose strand of gold.

Nothing is meticulous. Mother will scold her.

"Coming, coming," she sing-songs underneath her breath, almost to the window when she realizes that she's still wearing her dirty slippers from this afternoon. "No—no—" she steps back, hopping towards her loft, pulling off one muddied and soiled shoe and then the other. She runs upstairs.

"Rapunzel, let your hair down, right now."

"Yes, Mother! One second!"

Where to put them? She's running out of hiding places for things. Her paint box is housing her pinecones. Beneath her pillow is the book Eugene brought her what seems like forever ago. She shoves the dirty slippers beneath her mattress and the bed frame and runs back towards the window, nearly falling in her haste.

Her hair spills golden to the ground below.

"Rapunzel, that is unacceptable." Her mother says as she finally climbs into the window. "I just waited out there for nearly ten minutes. Ten minutes! And I was in such a good mood—I had the biggest surprise. Hazelnut soup, for dinner. But I don't much feel like making it anymore."

Rapunzel tries to ignore the pain emanating from her roots and pounding behind her eyes, instead focusing on keeping calm and pulling up her hair back into the tower room. "I'm sorry mother," she manages, trying not to sound to out-of-breath, "I fell asleep."

"Tsk." Gothel frowns, placing the basket she had slung over one arm onto the table; Rapunzel can see her clear eyes taking in the chair that was haphazardly pushed into the middle of the floor, the mess piled high in the kitchen. She massages her temples.

Is it just her, or does Mother look older than usual? Her dark hair is laced with gray, and lines have taken up residence beneath her eyes. She knows what's coming next even before her mother says it.

"Well, dear, thanks to all that waiting I'm feeling a little run down. Would you sing for me? Then perhaps I'll be feeling well enough to make that soup."

Rapunzel places a rickety three-legged stool by the already moved chair, hands her mother a brush, and silent sits down, a song on her lips. Her mother begins moving the comb methodically.

It is trouble when her mother's nimble fingers stop their movement at the back of her head.

Her breath hitches. She can feel the brush inches above her golden hair. And when it does not come down again right away she fears she has been careless.

"Well, Rapunzel, this is odd."

Breathe. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, calm, slow—

"Hm, Mother? What do you mean?"

"This. I think this is rather odd."

Suddenly her mother's slim hand enters her vision, and for a moment she can focus only upon the single age-spot that has taken up stubborn residence beside her knuckle, oval and brown, despite the magic that has smoothed the rest of the wrinkles and gray from her face. Then her gaze travels up, and she finds herself looking at a small leaf, a twig, really, but even that—

"What is that, Mother?"

"Really, Rapunzel, playing stupid is not exactly becoming, is it?" She feels her mother shift behind her, moving from her chair to walk in a dangerously slow circle until she stops directly in front of Rapunzel, blocking her view of the fireplace. She can see nothing but crimson dress, draping in graceful folds over her mother's skinny, youthful body.

Too close to her scalp. The twig was too close to her scalp. She couldn't explain it away as getting caught there when her mother climbed upward.

Her mother bends down until she is looking Rapunzel, where she sits on her rickety, three-legged stool, in the eyes, the leaf a sentinel between them. "Care to explain this?"

Her silence might as well have been a confession.

The twig snaps as her mother's hand slams closed around it; she hears the crack and break and flinches as nothing but bits of dust and green rain to the stone floor.

"Rapunzel, have you been outside?"

* * *

He's trying to be inconspicuous but it's hard with Hook-Hand so close.

"SO HOW'S RAPUNZEL?" he yells, unnecessarily loud, and Flynn flinches backward, further into the corner he has wedged himself in. He deigns not to respond, instead taking a sip of whatever the bar tender placed in front of him and gasping as it burns down his throat.

He doesn't really know how she is. He's been up at the capital, getting supplies for his makeshift camp; he got waylaid on the return trip by a contingent of palace guards. It's been a couple of days, and all he can hope is that she doesn't think he got killed—she still worries over that stupid as hell fortune teller.

He doesn't tell Hook-Hand any of this. Instead he listens to the crowd around him, the yells for more beer, the brawls, the sobbing, the quiet, the too-free girls, and takes another sip from his chipped mug. So, because of his silence, Hook-Hand yells once more:

"I SAID, HOW'S MY GIRL?"

"She's not your girl." He growls into his drink. "And I'm not here to discuss Rapunzel."

Hook-Hand looks disappointed, cutting a pattern into the wood before him. "Well then, Rider, what are you here to discuss? I'm a busy man, you know."

Flynn snorts. "I'm sure. I just…couldn't find anyone willing to tell me about what the Stabbingtons are up to."

"Where? Up at the capital?"

"Yeah. They all just…" Flynn sets down his drink and rubs his neck uncomfortably. "It was like they disappeared off the face of the earth. No has seen them up there for awhile."

"Maybe they did just disappear. I wouldn't put it past the Stabbingtons to pull an act like that."

"But I saw them. We saw them. In this place, just last week—"

"So you thought I had more information on them? I don't keep close tabs on those brothers, Rider, they're dangerous."

"You've had to have heard something." He doesn't know why he's so desperate—at least, that's what he tries to tell himself. In reality he knows perfectly well.

Because if they catch him he's more a dead man than if the palace guards caught up to him.

Because if the Stabbingtons have taken up residence here, he as to leave. Old lady be damned. Money be damned.

Rapunzel be…

He shakes his head.

Hook-Hand watches him through narrowed eyes, chipping away absentmindedly at the bar. The door to the tavern opens and Flynn whips his head around, expecting to see two large silhouettes, infinitely relieved when a small, rather unsteady looking fellow enters, pushing his way through the crowd.

"Alright, Rider, I'll tell you what I know." Hook-Hand says finally, rubbing the makings of a beard with his good hand. "But on one condition—"

"Always the conditions."

"—you bring Rapunzel back here for a visit."

"…You are really infatuated with her, aren't you?"

"…Maybe."

"She's taken."

"By who?"

"Her boyfriend."

"Only person I saw her with was you, Rider."

"Yeah, well, I was taking her. To meet her boyfriend."

"Oh really? Where does he live?"

"OK, enough!" Flynn looks annoyed. "Just tell me what you know."

Hook-Hand takes a sip of his drink. "They came in here a couple of days ago, talking about a new job they had."

Flynn's eyebrows shoot up but he remains silent.

"Alright, so they weren't talking outright about the job, but I overheard the one brother talking to the other brother about how they had to find this tower—"

Flynn suddenly has a hard time breathing, because of all the possibilities playing out in his head this was not one of them. "A tower?"

"Yeah, something in the woods. They had to meet someone there to get their payment, and they were arguing over the best way to get there."

"A tower."

"Yeah, that's what I said, Rider." Hook-Hand frowns. "Are you alright?"

"No." His mouth is dry and his head is reeling and he can't think straight and he doesn't even know what is happening, just that he needs to get to the tower now—

He runs.

* * *

"Stop looking at me like that, Rapunzel, really." She bends down to rub a hand lovingly along her daughter's head. "This will all turn out for the best. Trust me."

* * *

The trees slap his face. Above him the sky grows dark, and greenish, ugly clouds gather at the edges of the world, heading towards him.

* * *

"You're sure he will come?" she asks.

"Yes." His voice is raspy and rough. "Laid a bit of a bait over at the local tavern. If I know Rider, he'll be asking about us. And he'll come."

* * *

She's angry with her mother, for the first time in her life. She can't see her. The woman disappeared into the floor, some sort of entry she vaguely remembers her mother using as a child. Voices float up from below, but as she tries to move closer to the secret entrance in the flickering light of the fire she's struck by the fact that she can't move.

She tries to tell herself that her mother had a good reason for binding her arms, but all she can see is the trap door and her mother's reasoning, suddenly clear before her—

She will never escape this prison.

* * *

"If all goes according to plan then you get the money, as promised."

"You promised us something more."

"Yes, yes—do you think I care what happens to Rider? He's yours to deal with."

"Then we'll make sure all goes according to plan."

"I look forward to it."

* * *

He just makes it to the tower base before the rain starts. He can't see anything, just senses the large forest, overgrown and wild around him. He considers, momentarily, calling for Rapunzel's hair, but remembers just in time that her Mother is probably home.

He really didn't think this through, did he?

There are no signs of the Stabbington Brothers. He ignores the rain, wishing for a stars or some moon to light his way, and finds, with outstretched hands, the stone of the tower. Then he begins to climb.

He vaguely remembers that moment when he climbed the tower all those weeks ago, wondering what on earth he would find at the top.

Now he still wonders what'll be waiting for him.

He's missed the window in the dark, and can just make out the outline, lit by some sort of fire; he has to climb sideways for several feet, before continuing upward. By the time his hands grip the ledge he's soaked to the bone, tired, and out-of-breath. He gingerly peers up into the tower room.

For a moment everything seems normal, and he briefly entertains sliding quickly back down. The fire is on in the fireplace. There is food at the table but it doesn't look like it's been touched. Not a soul in the place. Then his gaze wanders over the stairs and he sees her.

She's bound at the wrists, a rope attached to the banister, like some sort of dog. He doesn't think, just jumps up and over the ledge, into the room, landing lightly on the ground. All he can hear is the rain.

"Mmeugenemmf!" She gasps, suddenly spying him. Her mouth is covered by a white cloth and she struggles forward, eyes wide, jerking her head rapidly towards the window he just came from. He ignores her, rushes forward, is three feet from her when something grabs the back of his shirt and tosses him to the floor.

The wind is knocked out of him, and he tries to catch his breath. All he can think is: _what the hell is going on here_, on repeat, but then a muddied boot enters his line of sight.

"Well, well, well. Rider. It's been awhile."

Damn. Damn it all. He never should of come here. Not without a plan.

"Not long enough." He hisses out, springing to his feet and readying a punch, only to feel a strong grip on his fist as he throws it backwards.

His arms twist and he is forced to the ground. He looks up into the face of the other brother, eye-patch twisted cruelly. He can hear Rapunzel struggling from the stairs.

"Well, isn't this darling."

That voice. He hasn't heard that voice in so long. He struggles against the grip that has him as she rises from the ground—

A trap door. That would explain things.

She floats towards him; he doesn't remember her looking quite so _old_. Her hair is dappled grey, age spots dot her arms, her clear eyes are clouded at the corners.

"Flynn Rider. I heard you were the number one thief in Corona. I heard stories of the path of brokenhearted girls and stolen jewels you left in your wake. I had it on good authority from several persons that you were credibly _heartless_."

There is a deathly silence. Rapunzel no longer moves from the stairs.

He hears it, in this silence. The end of everything he has ever come to remotely care about. The end of this lie.

End of line.

"I also had it on good authority that you were fairly competent at following orders, if the right amount of gold was involved." The woman moves towards where Rapunzel is sitting, wide-eyed, and gently removes the gag from her mouth. The girl's lips are dry and cracked. He flinches at the expression there.

"Eugene?" she whispers. "Eugene, what is she talking about?"

He doesn't know what to say. He can't talk his way out of this one.

"Yes, Flynn Rider," the woman spits his name out like poison, "what am I talking about?"

When he doesn't speak the brother holding him delivers a swift kick to his lower back, and he doubles over onto the floor. "I was fortunate," the woman continues, "to meet these fellows on my travels. Fairly competent at their job, I hear. And with a healthy dose of hatred for Flynn Rider. What did you do, I wonder?"

"Left us to rot, that's what he did." The brother not holding him grabs his hair, pulls upward, and punches him in the stomach.

"Stop it!" Rapunzel screams.

"Silence!" Her mother roars.

Rapunzel, doe-eyed, tries to stand, but the ropes around her wrist prevent her. "I don't understand. Please let him go, stop it. I won't ever leave again, I promise, just let him go—"

"But dear, you should be angry at this man."

"No, Mother—he showed me amazing things, and I don't think the outside world is all that bad—"

"Lies, Rapunzel. The outside world is a dangerous place."

"No, it's not, if you would just listen—"

"Tell her now, Rider. Tell her about this little game you were playing, because if you don't, I will."

"What will it accomplish?" he heaves out. "She'll hate the both of us, then."

"Then so be it."

"Seriously?"

"You are her window to the outside world, Flynn Rider. I should have never let it get this far. My mistake. I don't make very many of them."

"I am right here!" Rapunzel shouts, finally struggling to her feet against the ropes. "I am right here, and I want to know what's going on!"

"Bring him closer."

The brothers comply, shoving him along the floor until he is struggling before mother and daughter. He looks up into her eyes and opens his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Rapunzel. I never meant for it to go this far."

"For what to go this far? Eugene, what are you talking about?"

"Your mother…contacted me. I only found your tower because she told me where it was. She…she paid me."

"For what?" her words are a whisper.

"She paid me to make you fall in love with me."

The disbelieving look on her face is going to kill him.

"Then I was to break your heart."

* * *

"Don't you see my flower?" Gothel soothes, fussing with her hair. "It was all a lie. Rider was never supposed to take you out of the tower, however. Thus I terminated his employment."

She doesn't see any of it. She doesn't get her mother's twisted logic, or why Eugene would agree to such a thing, doesn't see it—doesn't get why she must live her life locked away in a tower, why she follows her mother, why she does these things. Everything, information, is coming in slow waves to her.

Strip it down to its barest form and three things were certain:

Flynn Rider, Eugene Fitzherbert, whoever he was, had no feelings for her, was a liar and a thief, and she had fallen for it all.

Gothel was only interested in keeping her locked up, away from the world outside.

And she wanted no more of any of it.

She struggles against the bonds tying her to the banister, ignoring the pained look on Eu—Flynn's face as he stares up at her, outlined by the two, grisly twin brothers.

"Let me go." She snaps at her mother.

"My flower—"

"Now, Mother!"

A stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless. The rain pounds out the background music to her drama. The firelight flickers. Her mother frowns, goes to the trap door, shuts it, and locks it with a key she pulls from the folds of her cloak. Rapunzel eyes her shrewdly as she tucks it away. As the ropes fall away from her she engulfs her mother in a hug, fighting every sense in her body that is telling her to run away.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I understand why you did it now."

That was a lie. She would never understand.

"Good, my flower."

"Please forgive me, I'll never go outside again."

And with that she pulls the key from the depths of her mother's cloak and throws it into the fire, where it cracks and sizzles and sparks.

"No!" Gothel runs towards it, barely stopping herself from reaching bare-handed into the flames. "Rapunzel, why would you—"

But she isn't listening. She's at the window, tossing down her hair to the darkness below, feeling it grow heavy and thick in the rain. She sends one look back to Flynn Rider and thinks that one part of her heart breaks off and falls away.

She meets his eyes, and for the first time, looking at the scene before her—her mother, reaching for the tongs to save the key, the Stabbington Brothers, looking between their employer and the girl escaping, and Flynn, nearly beneath them, Flynn, whom in her dream had been broken and bloody, Flynn, who she thinks she might love—for the first time she is not afraid to jump, and she does.

Her mother's scream is loud and long, shrieking into the night. The sounds of a scuffle reach her as she plants bare feet onto the wet, slick grass, slipping and sliding to her knees in the rain. Her hair catches on the iron hook and she tries in vain to bring the rest of it down to her, but can't—it's heavy and wet and catching, and she thinks her head might explode until—

It falls into a weighty pile beside her. She looks up, thinks she spies Flynn, but maybe it's just her imagination, her hopes, her dreams—

She thinks she is crying but can't tell in the rain.

Scooping up the darkened gold, as much as she can carry, she starts to run. Her feet take her on a familiar path; behind her, her hair drags in mud and dirt and slows her down.

She doesn't know anything. Can't think of anything. The trees are dark and menacing. The sky is threatening. Lightning flickers in the distance. In her mind she hears the shouts of her mother.

Carry on. The only way left is forward.

* * *

"DAMN IT!" Her anger is boiling over, striking everything it can reach. Chairs topple, plates crash, and the key sits on the table, cooling, leaving a burn mark in its wake.

"Blinded by greed, huh?" The damned Rider is leaning over the window, looking weary and defeated. The Stabbingtons are advancing upon him. "Flawed plan all around, old lady."

"Leave him!" Gothel roars. "Or you don't get the gold! Find the girl and bring her back to me! Only then will you get the payment!"

"You need her hair, don't you." Rider continues, and the only coherent part of her at the moment thinks that he is smarter than she gave him credit for. "To stay alive. To stay young. You are looking rather old tonight."

"Shut him up." She hasn't lost her cool like this in a long time. One of the brothers takes a swing at Rider's head and he goes down like a sack of bricks.

"Hair? Why do you need her hair?" one of them asks, turning around to look at her. She brushes aside his comment.

"Climb down and get the girl. I'll pay you double."

"And Rider?"

"Will be safely here, waiting on pins and needles for your return."

The brothers look at each other and Gothel wants to claw their eyes out.

"Fine," one says after a moment, and they move around Rider's prone form to the window.

"And boys?"

"Yeah?"

So disrespectful.

"I don't need her alive. But do not cut a piece of hair off her head." Part of her mourns the loss of a daughter. But she loves her hair more. Loves the magic more.

And the magic will work as long as her hair is intact.

She repeats, "I don't need her alive."

* * *

She trips in the road and falls to her knees, her hair falling around her. She is tired, and does not know if she is going the right way, but knows that she has to keep moving. Her mother will not let her leave. Not without a fight.

She's scared. The rain pounds and she can't see and she's scared. She sits there for a moment in the side of the road, and wonders at the turn her life has taken.

She has to keep moving but doesn't want to.

She doesn't hear the carriage through the rain until it is almost upon her.

She flings herself backward but the mud of the dirt road stops her. The carriage is not old, like one she saw (a long time ago) but it seems modest. A dark, navy color that blends in to the night. It rattles to a stop, and she doesn't have the energy to back farther away.

The door opens and a man comes out, despite the rain.

"Hullo, are you alright?"

No. No, she isn't.

"Here, let me help you—" he reaches down a hand. She can't see his face in the half-light but she thinks there are others in the carriage, can faintly hear their voices.

The hand, large, hangs patiently in the air.

She takes it.

* * *

**a/n:** if you guess who the guy is, i'll bow down to your tangled knowledge.


	14. Chapter 14

**a/n:** i begin with: happy summer! and then: thank you so much for reviewing the last chapter! i had guesses for the king, the thugs, the captain of the guard-the answer is kinda obscure...he says his name, so read on to find out.

thank you so much, reviewers! Haikoui, TangledGirlForever, PampleMousse07, boyslikegirls21, Nicole Billings, Fuocoso (thank you! and welcome to the fandom ahaha :) ), PrincessShahrazad, and Trivia! guys, you are all amazing, and your reviews are awesome and just thank you so much! :)

chaps are short again as we build up towards the finale.

* * *

Her first view of the capital is muddled by rain, which has stirred the streets to brownish muck and the sky to brackish gray. Inside she is bathed in twilight, a dim, dank sort of darkness compounded by the fact that she is still wet. As she moves, adjusting her position as quietly as she can in the silent carriage, she can feel the mud rub and chafe against her bare feet.

Across from her sits the man who came out of the carriage, equally as wet but not quite as dirty. She's been secretly studying him for the past thirty minutes and has come to the conclusion that he is trustworthy. He takes up half of the seat, with large, broad shoulders and a wide, square face. His hair is wet and dark brown and hangs in his eyes in a puppy-doggish sort of way.

He's all rounded curves and nice hillocks, whereas Flynn was all sharp angles and craggy peaks.

She shakes her head, which is hard because she's sitting on her hair, and it spills to her feet, thick and heavy, but anything to get Flynn Rider out of her thoughts. Anything to forget.

Next to her she can feel the thin, pointed nose lady, whose hair is pulled severely back, continually trying to push herself away from the dirt and grime she is leaking out. Rapunzel does her a favor and attempts the same thing, only in the other direction. Next to the big man is a smaller one, laughable in comparison, with a three-cornered hat and gilded clothing; she can see the frayed edges, the rough hems, and thinks about how Mother would scold her for such handy work.

She rubs her eyes. She'd rather think of Flynn than her Mother and would prefer neither.

Part of her, acutely aware of her state of dress, the way she must look, can feel all the unanswered questions swirling about the carriage like tangible things, little flying gnats she cannot escape.

_Why was a young lady out in the forest by herself, in this weather no less?_

_ Why was her hair so long and so gold?_

_ Why is she jumping at every sound?_

_ Why does she not know the proper way to act among people?_

The dull patter of rain against dirt changes tone as the carriage rolls over something more substantial than mud; the cobbles beneath them beat out a staccato beat, and the forest that had been following them since forever falls away into blackness. She peers out into the ink.

"It's a lake." The big man speaks and it seems to take everyone by surprise in the carriage. She pulls her head quickly away from the window and looks at him. "The capital is built on a lake." He continues. "Have you ever been to Corona before?"

"No." She is taken, against her will, to failed trips that ended in fortunetellers, rain, drinks, thugs—"No, I haven't."

"Do you know much about it?"

She appreciates him, appreciates the fact that he, whether from serious lack of interest or courtesy, is not asking what city she possibly could have come from. She was born of the forest, for all the people in this carriage know.

"There are slums, where the poor people live." She says matter-of-factly. The little oil lamp, the only light in the carriage, bobbles and the flame flickers as they dip into small hole and back out again. "And there is a castle."

"My goodness, girl, where are you possibly fro—"

"I'm Bastion." The big, bear man cuts in before the austere lady can finish her question. It's abrupt and awkward, but she has never been more grateful. "I'm Bastion, and I apprentice out to a blacksmith in town."

She hesitates a moment. She's afraid to trust, but more afraid of the inky blackness and the entering a city alone and friendless, so she takes a deep breath, steels herself, and answers.

"I'm Rapunzel."

* * *

There is something clawing at his stomach; he's sweaty, uncomfortable, and he can't concentrate on anything for too long. He's not scared, though. Or at least, that's what he tells himself. Flynn Rider is never scared.

The cool metal of the shackles Gothel bound him in is rubbing his wrists raw. He plays dead, prone and unmoving, cheek pressing against the cool floor of the tower. The fire has died down. Everything is going dark.

He needs to move. He needs to escape. The Stabbingtons had long ago climbed down the tower's slippery, wet sides to the ground below, failing to fall miserably to their deaths, as he had hoped, and now they must be half-way to her, trying to reach her, to get her—

_"I don't need her alive."_

The brothers, he knows, take any excuse to hurt, maim, or kill, and multiply it three-fold. He's seen some of their work first hand. So this is the only sound that runs through his head, and the only picture accompanying it is them dragging Rapunzel's head back by the long of her golden hair—

"Shit." He gnashes his teeth together, worrying at the locks behind him. He hears movement from behind a curtain, where Gothel disappeared an hour ago, and stops. When she doesn't emerge, hell hath no fury and all that, he continues his work.

When the lock clicks and he rubs feeling back into his hands he can't help but think that the old lady has underestimated him one times too many.

* * *

**a/n: **heh...heh...don't kill me, he's so obscure and not even in the actually movie. he was going to be for awhile, though! if you google image search 'bastion tangled' you can see a pic of him. the big, bear one.


	15. Chapter 15

**a/n:** hey everyone i'm really excited for the ending of the story because i like how it plays out, but i have to get past all of this stuff first, so hopefully it's ok!

two chaps for you. thank you: EugeneLoverRapunzel, PampleMousse07, TangledGirlForever (don't worry, i'm partial to Eugene myself :) ahaha but no promises!), and Romance and Musicals for reviewing! you guys, as always, remain awesome and keep me wanting to write :)

here we go.

* * *

The carriage pulls to a stop in some part of town just as dark as the rest, and she can't get her bearings, especially by only one window. A man in a black oil-slick jacket suddenly blocks her view, looking for all the world like a wraith in one of Mother's tall tales. He opens the door, face an angry scowl by the small light of the lamp.

"Brown's Smithy," he coughs off, sounding hoarse and sick, so much so that she can't help but say something.

"Are you alright?" She peers into his blood-shot eyes. "You look sick and tired. Perhaps you should rest."

"We can't all be as fortunate as you, little miss, can we?" he says sardonically, his voice cutting like the wind that enters the warm little carriage. She frowns.

"I'm only saying, a little tea would be good for—"

"BROWN'S SMITHY! GET OUT OR GET ON!" He roars, and it echoes in the quiet street. A cacophony follows it, animals she's never heard before answering the call of their supposed brethren. On her other side Bastion smiles good-naturedly.

She's beginning to think that he does everything good-naturedly. There is nothing hidden behind his eyes.

"No harm meant, no harm meant." He squeezes past her into the street, reaching back up for something on the top of the carriage; his hand comes away with a worn looking case, square and leather; his other he holds out to her.

"Thanks," she takes it, stepping down, bare feet squelching in the mud. She sinks several feet into the ground. The carriage waits not a moment longer. She barely has time to pull her tangled hair from the little compartment before it is rattling down the street.

"You'll stay in the shop tonight. It's where I usually sleep, too," he peers anxiously at her, misreading her face and saying quickly, "but there's an extra cot and I'll be sleeping by the door as per usual—"

She nods wearily, drifting off. She can't see a thing on the street, only can feel masses of blackness, tangible in the night, on either side of her. She examines the direction the carriage took, but can see no castle. Sleep hits her over the head, and she fights back a yawn. Her hair slips out of her grasp and she readjusts her hold.

"It's this way. Come on." He eagerly leads her to a wooden door she can just make out as her eyes adjust from the lack of candlelight. A yellow line can be seen under the entry. Bastion doesn't knock, just shoves it open with his shoulder. Light spills onto the quiet street, and she can hear the creatures of the dark scatting to be rid of it. She blinks rapidly, stepping forward into the warmth of a building. He shuts the door behind her.

"It's kinda a mess—hold on—I swear this was clean last time—"

He drops his luggage unceremoniously to the floor and moves surely around the space, picking up discarded bottles and throwing them into a large fire pit in the center of the room, which is giving off the welcome light and heat. Rather sheepishly he picks up strange metal objects that lie haphazardly about and throws them into a growing pile in one of the corners. They clang as they fall.

The whole space is smaller than her tower room. Besides the fire pit she can make out two long cots, one pushed directly to her right, by the door, and the other in the far corner, shadows licking at it. Metal objects, swords and frying pans and tools, hang from the walls. On a single wooden chair something brown and lumpy frets and she steps back, the wood of the door digging into her spine. Bastion notices the movement.

"Oh, him—don't worry 'bout him. He's just old Brown. Here, I'll wake him so he can meet you—"

"It's ok, it's so late—"

"No, he should leave anyway—here—" He sends a finger crashing hard into the middle of the indiscernible object. Nothing happens except it moves slightly, just enough that she can make out a shock of gray beneath the leather smithy's apron. "Mr. Brown." Bastion slaps his stomach repeatedly. "Mr. Brown, sir! There's a guest!"

There is still no response and the big man kicks an empty bottle by the chair leg that he failed to pick up. "He takes to drink, a lot." He looks embarrassed, though she can't imagine why, because it's not like _he's_ the one who drinks or anything.

Besides, she quite likes the stuff too. She almost says so but can't find the energy to do much more than fall sideways into the cot.

"Oh, you want that one?"

"Any is fine. This is amazing." She yawns and slips sideways, doesn't hear the response because she's asleep before her head hits the coarse material.

* * *

He should kill her, the old lady in the next room. He slips silently over to the curtain and strains to hear anything. There is an old, cracked sort of humming, he thinks, but can't make it out for certain. He looks for anything sharp, sets his sights on the ornate fireplace poker sitting calmly by the flames that have gone to their charcoal, wooden bed, walks over, is about to grab it—

He stops, suddenly, hand inches above it.

Yes, killing her would solve some things. _But think_, he frowns, drawing his hand back, _the Stabbingtons won't know that she's dead. They would still go after Rapunzel_.

With a practice gait, taking long steps and slow steps, he makes it to the window, swings out onto the ledge, and is gone into the night, the strange song Gothel was humming echoing in his ears.

* * *

"You don't bring back any of the needed supplies, you take so long you might as well have been on a sabbatical, and you come back with-with—that!"

"Don't point at her like that, she's not a dog."

"She's a stray! And you brought her here! Do you remember what happened to that homeless pup you found? Or the cat? Or the bird? None of it turned out well! None of it!"

"She's a girl! She was lost and afraid—"

"Probably for good reasons!"

"Are you saying I should have left her on the side of the road? To starve and die?"

"Yes. I am. Boy, I pay you to make swords and things of iron, not to save every sad rescue that comes your way."

Rapunzel frowns in her mock slumber and sits up. "I'm not a rescue."

"Great! She lives!" A small, plump old man, with a shock of gray hair, wearing the same heavy apron she saw him in last night, stalks over to where she is leaning on the cot. Bastion must have put a blanket on her sometime last night because it falls to the floor. "Out, missy. This is not an inn. You can find one of those down the street. Out!"

"Mr. Brown!"

"What? I do not run a tavern! I already let _you_ stay here!" Mr. Brown takes a swig of a glass bottle, pointing an accusing finger at Bastion; she wonders faintly where he got it from, but becomes immediately distracted by the way her toes crack when she moves. She feels dirty and sticky. Looking down she finds nothing but brown mud, dried like a second skin, up to her knee. Her dress is torn in several places.

"I saw your sign." This is a lie—a small lie, because it was dark last night, but a lie nonetheless; she has never lied as much as she has in the past two days before. "It looked run down. Do you get a lot of customers?"

Mr. Brown staggers to the fire pit and tosses the now empty bottle inside. "None of your business," he says impishly, sounding like a petulant child. Brushing off the last vestiges of sleep and rubbing her eyes, she sends a knowing look to Bastion, who, again in a rather shamefaced way, shakes his head.

"They all go to the smithy closer to the market."

"So they got the better location, so what?" Mr. Brown frowns angrily, stoking the flames suddenly so they rise past his head. "We have the better quality."

"Nobody notices that, Mr. Brown."

The old man snorts. Rapunzel feels everything slipping away from her and tries to get her lie back on track.

"The point is, I can advertise for you. Paint up the front of your shop. I mean, I'm all right at painting. I can make it pretty. Then more people will come. I would visit a prettier shop."

Mr. Brown looks at her like she is insane, one corner of his mouth raised, one eye squeezed close. "Are you simple?" he asks bluntly, and she snorts.

"Hardly."

He stares at her some more, standing by the blazing fire. She feels uncomfortable under his gaze. Finally:

"Just get her out." He looks sad and old and confused, staring at his empty shop. "Bastion, get her out. I don't want to see her here tomorrow. Put her up at the inn or something. Take the day off. I don't care. Just go."

Bastion raises his hand as if he is going to say something but stops, thinking better of it. She smooths out the wrinkles in her dress for something to do, decides she is done waiting, gathers up her hair, which sits patiently at her feet, and moves outside.

Not even a drunk old man would take her.

She finds herself on a moderately busy highway, the sky a mottled gray.

The door shuts behind her.

* * *

Bastion watches the entry swing shut. "Are you sure you don't mind if I take the day off?"

"To help her? No. I guess not." His employer wipes at his moist lips, hunting around the floor for another full bottle. "I just don't want to see her again."

"You can't hold a grudge against every blonde girl, just because they share the same hair color as your daughter—"

"You know your problem, Bastion Keane?" Brown shuffles forward, angry, bloodshot eyes red-rimmed, cheeks puffed, deep wrinkles carved and stretching in his outburst. "You are too kind-hearted. And it will come to bite you in the ass. Believe you me."

"I don't think so."

"Don't think so? Don't think so?" The old man bursts into a bitter, caustic laugh, which leaves him leaning breathless on the fire pit, oblivious to the flames inside. "I know trouble when I see it. I can smell it, too. That girl reeks of it. She will be the death of you."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Brown. You're drunk." Bastion moves to follow Rapunzel out the door.

"Don't ever mention my daughter again, or I'll kick you out of employ, Mr. Keane."

"Good_bye_, Mr. Brown."

He pretends not to hear the parting words of a drunk employer as he walks into the sunlight and almost into the mysterious girl in question, who is standing, staring out at the street, as if she has never in her life seen this many people gathered in one place at one time.

"She will be the death of you."


	16. Chapter 16

**a/n:** onward.

* * *

He must look like death, because Hook-Hand takes one good glance and wordlessly offers him his own mug. Brown liquid spills onto the counter. Flynn shakes his head. Which hurts.

"What _happened_ to you?" The thug asks, taking a sip of ale big enough for the both of them combined. Flynn, still trying to catch his breath from the sprint he took to get here, still on edge from looking out for the Brothers Grimm, still feeling the after effects of last night's beating, is at a lost for words.

"Hey keep, a beer. Cold." Hook-Hand says instead, slapping the counter. A few seconds later a chip mug is shoved into his hands, but he can't seem to drink it without picturing her, giggling and balanced precariously on a stool, making friends in this very spot—

"Rider! What's the matter? You look like hell. Say something. How's my girl?"

His stomach does a dead little flop and he quickly places the mug on the counter, feeling suddenly and immensely unsteady.

"Rider? How's my girl?" Hook-Hand repeats, and he can't even manage a comeback to the much-hated epithet.

Someone shovels past him into the depths of the bar, an early-rise drinker ready for a day of festivities. In the gleaming metal of his shield Flynn catches the first good look of himself he's had in awhile, and he'll be _damned_ he actually looks horrible.

He didn't think it was possible.

A black eye stretches across one half of his face, large, purple, menacing. Blood mats back some of his hair, and his upper lip is swelling nicely. He can feel bruises to match on his gut and side. His shoulders ache, and his wrists are still red.

He looks like a living murder victim.

"Rider. I'm serious. Where is she? Is she ok?"

"Have the Stabbingtons been here?" He finally finds his voice and says by way of response.

"Not that I know of."

Damn. Damn. Damndamndamn—then they were already nearing the capital. Probably already at the capital. He should have known. They weren't the kind to stop off for some breakfast, not with a high paying job and revenge on the line.

"I need a horse."

"Rider, what's going on?"

All these question were getting on his nerves. He reaches for his discarded drink, downs half, and for one brief moment feels gloriously alive, as he hasn't in days, as the liquid courage burns its way down his throat. "I need a horse." He repeats at last. "Please, Hook-Hand, you have to have something."

"Is she in danger?"

Flynn's silence is enough. Hook-Hand settles his drink onto the counter and swings around to the five or so customers already frequenting tables, despite the early morning hour. "HEY VLADIMIR!"

There is a lengthy pause. He listens to a large banging coming from the upper stories of the bar. Suddenly a man three times his height and a hundred times his width is peering angrily over the balcony. "WHAT?"

"ARE THOSE HORSES FROM THE PALACE GUARDS WE AMBUSHED STILL OUT BACK?"

"IN THE SHED."

"RIDER HERE IS GOING TO TAKE ONE."

"WHY?"

"MY GIRLFRIEND'S IN TROUBLE."

"FINE, I GUESS."

"You guys don't have to yell!" Flynn finally shouts, and his voice carries easily in the near empty pub. "Seriously. No one is here."

"Shut up, Rider." Hook-Hand nods once to Vladimir and leads him out a back way, where the forest is encroaching on the little roadside establishment. A rickety old shack sits in one corner.

Inside there are three horses in the regalia of the Corona Palace Guards, golden sun metals gleaming at their breasts, saddles packed and ready.

"We were coming to the tavern yesterday when they showed up down the road, looking for a stolen headband or spoon or knife or something. I forget what it was. Me 'n Vladimir jumped 'em. They looked like they might have had loot in their bags, but nah, fresh out. They took off running towards the capital, screaming about reinforcements. So we kept their horses…"

He's not even listening to the story, only trying to figure out which horse would move the fastest. The white one, it's mane done up in tight little knots, snorts angrily. He's the biggest of the bunch, and Flynn usually judges a book by its cover, so he goes, "I'll take that one."

"…and then they said—huh?" Hook-Hand looks at his pick and whistles. "Good luck. That one bit me. Three times. Nearly brained poor Gunther, too."

Flynn approaches the horse with baited breath and even steps, though every fiber of his being screams for quickness. The medallion on the horse's white neck proclaims MAXIMUS in large, raised letters.

The horse snorts and stamps a foot.

Flynn rubs a hand across his mouth and blinks.

Suddenly he moves, kicking off the wall, up and over and onto the horse in one quick and graceful movement, the kind he'd be loath to repeat. Hook-Hand lets out another whistle.

"Well look, he likes ya—"

The horse begins to buck and Flynn yelps in a rather un-thief-like manner, shouting, "Wait a minute—Stop. It. Stop—"

The horse comes to a quivering rest, neighing. He smiles broadly. "See?" He looks smugly down at Hook-Hand. "All animals love me."

"If you say so…"

"Alright. Come on, flea-bag, forward!"

A pause.

Suddenly the horse leaps forward like a spring, out into the bright daylight, and he nearly falls off, the wind blowing back his hair, the road bumping along beneath him, his single yell echoing behind him and mingling with Hook-Hand's own as he jumps the fence surrounding the tavern and onto the road to the capital.

"Bring her back, Rider! I don't know what happened but bring her back!"


	17. Chapter 17

**a/n:** Hey WhatsMyAge, Romance and Musicals, PampleMousse07, EugeneLoverRapunzel, and Death by Default (honey bunches, you rock :) ) thank you so much for reviewing! :) i really appreciate it, and hope you guys and all my readers enjoy the following chapters.

two chaps for you guys.

* * *

Everything is falling to pieces around her, in such a grand and magnificent fashion as has never before happened to her during her long, long life. When she leaves her room to check on the prisoner and finds nothing but empty shackles she regrets the day she ever set eyes on the poster that read 'Wanted: Flynn Rider.'

Her anger boils over, and she bites her lip to keep from screaming, to keep calm, because this was her game, and she had to control it.

Something metallic bursts into her mouth and crawls down her chin. She wipes it away in disgust.

People used to tell her that she was playing God, and it couldn't last forever, but then those people had all died, withered away to nothing but dust, rotting and decaying in the ground while she remained firmly above it.

"Tell me," she had spat at their graves, "tell me how it feels to be mortal."

Now, standing in the tower she had constructed, the prison meticulously crafted to keep her secret in, she wonders where it all went wrong. The key mocks her from the table, now cool and perfect. The shackles mock her from the floor. The emptiness of Rapunzel's loft mocks her from above. The rising sun, unable to shine through the thick cloud cover, baths the whole scene in an odd sort of half-light.

She knows exactly where everything went wrong. Can pinpoint it to the day, the hour, the minute, the second.

A flower. A single, rare, golden flower, the thing of myth and miracles, used to save a dying queen and kill a human god.

She screams, tugging at her hair, turning in a circle around the empty loft, and for the first time in her life she does not know where to place the next chess piece. She has made such a gross miscalculation as there is no coming back from it.

But she has to.

Because as she waits she can feel old age coming to greet her, not as a friend, but as an enemy. She can feel it wrapping hold of her skin and joints. When she looks down at her hand the skin looks less taunt, two age spots reside there instead of one, and there is no magic hair to save her from a slow death to dust like the people she spat on.

She needs Rapunzel.

She tries to calm herself, but the more she thinks about it, the more the answer is obvious. The more she realizes what she should have done ages ago.

Free will is so hard to contain. And Gothel tried. She really did.

In the end, she tells herself, flinging back the curtains to her room and throwing opening her nightstand drawer, in the end it will not be she who will be blamed for the girl's death.

It will be Flynn Rider.


	18. Chapter 18

**a/n: **bam.

* * *

She washes her feet in a horse trough, watching as the water turns a murky, swirling brown. She dips the hem of her dress in, for good measure, but she holds no hope for it. Her hair is golden, smooth, and no worse for wear. _Like magic_, she thinks. Which is ironic.

Bastion offers to buy her a new dress, and some shoes, but she declines on both accounts. "The streets aren't so bad, now," she says, stamping a foot on the hardened dirt-cobblestone mix that makes up most of the roads in Corona, "that the rain has stopped and everything."

Bastion agrees with her, but says the streets are never really great. "If you want great streets," he says, "we need to go up to Hightown. Now there's some real masonry."

He says it with such panache and excitement that she suddenly finds herself wanting to visit this mysterious place. But before she tells him so she takes a moment on the side of the street, beneath the overhang of Mr. Brown's Smithy (she was right, the sign really is horrendous—cracked and peeling, decrepit wood and rusted hinges) to just stare.

People walk by, oblivious to her as she stays in the shadows. In the mottled gray light of early morning she watches more people than she has ever seen before in her entire life bustle past, some in groups, some alone, some screaming obscenities and some screaming greetings. Their clothes are bland, dark shades of brown and purple, some blues, and the only true splash of color comes from the draped flags that she did not notice last night. The street is drab without them—spots of color in a world of brown and gray. Dark purple, with a golden sun standing out upon them.

"What are those for?" she asks, gripping her hair like an old friend with one hand and pointing at the flags with the other.

"The Memorial Festival for the Lost Princess is coming up." Bastion adjusts his jacket, which looks like he slept in it. "It's an excuse to party, drink, and make money in most parts of Corona. It's an excuse to mourn up at the palace."

"Mourn?"

"Yeah. I feel bad, for the king and queen, you know what I mean?"

"Not really, no—what happened to them?"

He stares oddly at her, and for a moment she catches him eyeing her hair. "Their daughter was taken, eighteen years ago."

"No one could find her?"

"No one at all. They light lanterns in her honor, every year, hoping one day she'll return."

"That's so sad." It comes out as more of a whisper than she intends it to. She tries to sneak a peak at the castle but can't see it; the sign hangs in her way. "Lanterns are like stars, right? Floating stars."

"You could say that." He frowns. "You've never seen them before?"

"No."

"They're beautiful. The festival's tomorrow night, I could take you—"

She cuts him off, quickly. "So, will you show me Hightown?"

"Oh. Of course." He nods his head and starts walking. "Then I'll get you a room at the inn, that way Mr. Brown won't throw a fit."

As she follows behind him she sees nothing but sky blue and dark hair, lithe shoulders and hawk noses—

Something hard steps on her hair and pulls. "Eek—" she spills backward, realizing that some of the gold had escaped her grasp. People were beginning to stare, finally, to look away from their daily lives and regard her oddly.

_Flynn was right_, she thinks rather dully as another fast-walker nearly plows into her, stepping on yellow in the process, _no one has hair like me. _

This wasn't reassuring.

Bastion, hearing her strange noise, turns and quickly assesses the situation. She's struck by how open his eyes are. Nothing guarded, no secrets. She hadn't realized it last night, but now, standing awestruck in the street, she can see it—the only way she knew to trust him was because of his eyes.

They did not hold the doubt, the lies, the fear, that her mother had held, that those two ugly brothers had held, that Flynn Rider had held.

"Hmm," he plays with a button on his jacket. "Oh! I got just the thing—come on!"

He takes her hand and she allows herself to be pulled forward.

* * *

He had followed her trail, an easy thing of broken branches and leaves, all the way to the road, where her footprints had suddenly stopped. The rain had washed away all markings on there, as well, which had left them both stranded.

He had then decided to head in the general direction of the capital.

Now, standing at the entrance to the place, he is struck with the difficulty of this job.

"She could be anywhere," he growls to his brother, who cracks his neck silently. A contingent of palace guards rides past them, down the bridge, and the two brothers automatically turn away and lower their shoulders. "And I don't like the capital. Too risky, too many guards."

Too big. She could be anywhere. They could sweep the city and she could still be safely hidden away.

"Should we take it easy?" he growls out. "Go back for Rider and leave it at that?"

He can read his brother like an open book, and everything he sees says no.

"I know, I know, the money." He sighs, but it sounds like a war cry. Stepping into the city, he motions for his brother to stick to the shadows. Green plants spring out of window boxes, contrasting with the purple drapery that connects one window to the next.

"Why does she want the girl's hair anyway?" he muses aloud. "It doesn't make any sense."

Families scream by him and he flinches at the noise. His brother grunts behind him, and he's about to tell him to shut up when he hears it too—

"Can you believe how much hair she had?"

"I know! It was so fun to braid!"

The laughter of children draws his eyes to an empty square where three girls, red hair sticking up in odd directions, mimic the length of the hair they saw with wide eyes. He strides over, grabbing the first girl by the collar. She screams in protest and he can feel the eyes of all in the vicinity turn to him. He decides to make it quick.

"Which way did she go?"

The little girl points down the street. He lets go of her collar and follows, like a bloodhound after a criminal.


	19. Chapter 19

**a/n:** hey everyone! i have the next six or seven chapters all ready and written. which is good.

this author's note might be a little long-feel free to skip it, but i think i should thank my reviewers because they are amazing :)

Nicole Billings: Thank you so much! :) I'm so happy you are enjoying the story! (I wish it could be a movie...ahaha)

Romance and Musicals: Thank you! I'm glad the Gothel chapter was good-writing crazy people is fun ahaha

PampleMousse07: Don't be too scared! Just a little bit... ;)

Eponinepetrelli: I'm really glad you enjoy the story! More to come :)

EugeneLoverRapunzel: Of course Eugene is coming! I love writing him too much to keep him silent for long.

CainaStarsong: Thank you so much! :) I'm glad you like Bastion, and he's not too Gary Stu, or OC, or whatever they are known as now...ahaha

B00kNerd: Thank you! I'll update quickly!

sorry guys, I know that was long, but a lot of my reviewers have been with me since the beginning, or close to, and we are nearing the end, so thank you (and everyone who reads this story) so much!

now onward.

* * *

"Better?" he asks, watching as she spins around, free from her hair dragging on the street. She smiles.

"Much."

The road to Hightown is busy with people heading to the market, but he is happy that the street is paved more regularly; he wishes, though, that she had accepted his offer of shoes. She walks ahead of him, hair thick and braided, shining, it seems, despite the lack of sunlight.

"How come I haven't seen the castle yet?" she asks, not bothering to turn around. He stops staring and coughs.

"The fog's rolled in. Once we hit the Market Square you should be able to see it."

The gently sloping street pans out into a wide, circular space clear of buildings, and the fog, brought on by the weather, dissipates enough for the outline of the castle to faintly be seen. He's grown up underneath it all his life, but for the moment as she stands, staring silently up at it, he imagines what it must be like to a new comer—

_It's like she's never seen anything like it_, he thinks, but then brushes it aside. _I'm sure there are grander castles wherever she comes from_.

Despite the torn dress and haggard appearance, she still seemed different. Different from common folk, like him.

The castle was modestly rising out of the clouds, rounded parapets and towers looking shy beneath the fog. She squints beside him, sighing. "I can't really make it out."

"It's not that big of a deal." He says, not knowing why he's saying such inconsequential things to make her feel better. She frowns.

"But I've never seen a castle before." She seems angry, but he can't tell why; something unreadable is on her face, and as people push past them, yelling at them for stopping in the middle of the way, he finds himself copying her expression.

"Never?"

"No. You wouldn't understand." She begins to walk away, and he's about to say it, about to say 'well, try me,' except his mouth is frozen shut and she's not paying him any attention anyway. Her eyes are for the large mural that dominates one wall of the square. A mosaic of the king and queen, a long time ago before age and grief caught up to them, holding a baby girl with golden hair and greener eyes. He watches as her head tilts.

Something stirs in him, something he doesn't want to look at, something brought on by Mr. Brown.

He wants to help her. But at this point, she's about as distant as the moon and twice as hard to reach.

* * *

She bites her lip, trying to ignore the presence behind her and trying to avoid looking at the baby in the mosaic. She's struck by a sudden feeling of guilt; here is a child who never knew her mother, and here she is, a girl who readily left hers.

Maybe Mother really was just doing what was best for her.

Bastion says nothing at her back. She feels guilty, too, about the way she has suddenly turned to treating him, but she can't help but imagining what would have happened if someone else had actually got her here. To the capital. To this place.

Nothing in town seems as pretty and bright as _he_ had once promised it would be. She had no desire to see the rest of it. And now the mosaic was making her wish she hadn't left her home in the first place.

She turns slowly around to face Bastion and finds him staring at her. When he realizes he's been caught he quickly looks away. "I want to help you." He says at last, after a long pause in which she can hear people placing gifts at the mural behind her for the lost princess, a long pause in which each flower hitting the stone drops heavily in her gut.

"I know." She says finally, smiling sadly. "But I don't think you can. We've only just met, Bastion. You've been very kind to me, but I can't drag you in to my problems."

"But Rapunzel—"

She spies something out of the corner of her eye and for the first time all morning feels some semblance of happiness.

"Come here!" she says, not waiting for him but taking off through the people towards a small, wooden cart. It's painted a multitude of colors, oranges and greens and blues and purples, a wonderful, veritable rainbow amidst fog and gray and brown and black. Paintbrushes and paints for sale, in colors she had never before dreamed existed.

"A paintbrush and a paint, please." Says a voice that is getting to be familiar, and she turns quickly around.

"No, Bastion, I can't—"

"I want to paint." He says firmly, picking out a brush. "Uh. What color do I want to paint in?"

"Sky blue," she breathes, eyeing the cerulean color she saw one day and has only since seen in her dreams.

He hands over some coins, which clatter noisily to the wood. The man behind the cart smiles gratefully.

"Here," Bastion hands her the brush and small jar of paint.

She hasn't held a brush in so long. She'd always wanted to paint Flynn, but had never had the courage to ask. She settles in the corner of the busy square, next to the mosaic but with her back to it. Bastion sits on the floor in front of her.

"You can't paint the ground," he whispers furtively, "it's against the law. Well, probably is."

"I know _that_—here, give me your hand."

He patiently holds out the requested appendage; she's struck again by how large it is, callused along the palm from holding hammers and pumping bellows in the smithy. She sets the jar down next to her and expertly dips in the tip of the paintbrush, setting it down on his palm and moving it up in a curve.

"Why do they sell paints anyway?" She asks. "Here, I mean. In this square."

"Well, they probably don't think people will sit down with them right there and paint things."

He sounds so much like Flynn that her brush pauses, but she takes a breath and pushes on. When she is finished she's painted a sun, blue as the sky which refused to show itself today, on his palm. He admires it in the foggy light.

"Wow, it looks just like the ones on the flags!"

She smiles smartly.

"Of course."

* * *

The horse is a demon.

He decided this before it bucked him off the bridge leading to the capital and into the lake, but that incident confirmed things.

Now aching and sopping wet, he enters the city with as much dignity as he can muster, keeping to the shadows as palace guards rove the streets.

To be honest, it's probably better that he never made it here with Rapunzel. He'dve spent the whole time trying not to get caught.

He brushes under some purple flags hanging from the balconies of the buildings lining the streets and rolls his eyes. He forgot about the holiday for the lost princess—that explains why there were so many extra guards about.

It's nearing lunch; there is no sun to confirm, but his stomach gives an odd sort of growl, especially as he passes a cart selling fresh bread and cheese. He ignores it, turning down a side alley as another pair of guards pass by.

Things were starting to hit him.

Finding Rapunzel in this place was going to be like finding a needle in a haystack.

A needle who hated him in a haystack filled with more people who hated him.


	20. Chapter 20

**a/n: **wingardium leviosa.

* * *

He's quick, because that's what he needs to be, because that's all he ever is when a job's on the line. She made it so _easy_, too, standing there in the square like that for the world to see. His brother fidgets next to him, eager, too eager, and he has to place a scarred, rough hand on his shoulder.

"You blind?" he hisses in annoyance. "Take her now and half the kingdom will see."

Her hair is pulled back in a thick, twisted braid, knots and things actually pulling the mass up off the ground. "There has to be a reason why the old lady wants it so much." He muses, half to himself and half to his brother. "Maybe it's gold?"

His brother looks at him with one eye.

"Bright enough to be gold."

A shrug.

"What else could it be? You got a better idea?"

Nod.

"What, magic or something?"

Grin.

"Magic? You shittin' me now."

Shake.

"Well, there has to be some reason why the old lady wants it so much." He repeats. "I bet…" he's so lost in thought that he stops walking a moment, shadows draping around him like a demented sort of cape. "I bet her hair is worth more than a hundred-thousand payments."

Nod.

"Which means she's worth much more to us alive, and as ransom."

Feral smile.

"Well, brother, the game is changing. Come on."

The other man growls, and they continue to stick to the shadows along the side of the square, watching as the girl is led towards the road leading from the Market Square and to Hightown by a bulky looking fellow in a rumpled leather jacket. He frowns.

"Take out her body guard first."

His brother eyes his sword in an unspoken question and he shakes his head.

"Knock him out. Take the girl. We're already in enough trouble with the guards as is. Another murder count won't do us any good."

His brother disagrees but with one shove he has him in line. The gloom easily hides their approach; the fog, which seemed to have been dissipating, has changed its mind and is rolling back to settle over the capital in thick, heavy waves.

The girl enters the street; with one quick hit he pulls his brother into a side alley, up through the connecting path and to another, dingy area that is dank and damp in the weather. The sun makes the fog seem otherworldly, thick and unnatural, reflecting off the myriad of water droplets.

"…it's beautiful," the man is saying in an eager voice, "with buildings as tall as the eye can see."

"Really? Why doesn't everybody live in nice houses like up in that Hightown place, then?"

"Well, I guess some people are just born poor and that's the way of things."

They move as one, without any sort of communication between them. His brother's gripping the hilt of his sword tightly; he, himself, reaches out for the girl—

In one swift movement he's covered her mouth and muffled her scream, and the boy is slumped up and over on the ground, a large, red bump swelling on the corner of his head.

It's as simple as that.

The girl struggles against his grip, kicking out and connecting with his shin. "Ow!" he curses, trying to be quiet, the clank of palace guards coming loudly in his ear. He drags her back towards the side alley. She bites his hand and he lets go with a yelp, but before she can make it to her fallen comrade his brother's hand is tight around her waist, throwing her unceremoniously over his shoulder, like a sac.

"Now," he says, coming eye-level with her, making things quick, quick, quick because the guards are coming, "now you listen to me. I think your hair is something special. The boy's alive. You come back quietly with us and we won't kill him."

Her green eyes are wide and her mouth an angry, hard scowl and she responds with three words.

"Fine, I promise."

"Good," and he grins like a shark.


	21. Chapter 21

**a/n: **thank you to WhatsMyAge, twihardandveryobsessed, Nicole Billings, Romance and Musicals, Lulu (Gothel is aging very rapidly at this point), and CnC Veteran/TheCryoLegionaire for reviewing! I really appreciate it, everyone, and appreciate everyone who reads this story also. Thank you! :)

* * *

The fog's wrapped around the whole capital like a blanket, so thick he could cut it with a knife, and people are nothing but voices in the wind. He can hear vendors yelling about their wares, children running in the street, people shouting and generally continuing with their daily lives despite the grievous lack of visibility. He still sticks close to the building overhangs, out of habit, and finds himself feeling his way to Market Square. It's the place he decides to start really looking because it's the place he would have taken her.

He stands for a moment in the nothing, in the blank whiteness. Behind him he can make out the wood and door of a building, below him the cracked, hard cobbled way, and that's about it. He frowns, rubbing at his chin and his eyes and his nose, jumping from one foot to the other, stomach a wild mess of nerves.

He misses the suave Flynn Rider in times like these.

To his left, where he can feel the openness of the square, he hears a pair of heavy boots, maybe a slight, light noise, but when he turns his head to investigate it is gone, a distant memory lost to the fog, and he's left wondering if he imagined it.

He continues forward, blindly, almost, until he reaches what he_ thinks_ is the street leading from the Market to Hightown. The clank of a soldier's uniform reaches his ears, and he ducks into the nearest visible side-alley. When he thinks they have passed he edges his way out into the fog, and trips.

"Dammit all—" he hisses to the empty air, because he has grown clumsy and ugly in the last twenty-four hours and doesn't like it. His knee feels cut, adding to his growing menagerie of bruises and injuries, and his boot is scuffed. He gets to his feet, back-tracking a few long steps to find the source of his fall.

He makes out the shape in the fog before he sees the face. He kneels down when he can clearly perceive the mop of brown hair and large, bear-like form.

"Hello." He pokes at the man's shoulder. A large, red bump is blossoming beautifully on the stranger's forehead. "Hey, are you ok?"

The man doesn't stir so Flynn stands, because, frankly, more important things are currently on his mind. He takes a step into the startling, thick white surrounding him and that's when he hears it and his heart stops a moment and, size difference be damned, he has the man up and on his feet, pressed against the nearest wall, and he's breathing into the stranger's face with intensity—

"Rapunzel…" the man moans again, slowly blinking open his eyes. "Rapunzel, what's—"

"Where is she?" Flynn's voice is hoarse and dreadful and raw. "Where is she? Did you see her?"

"I don't—who are—Rapunzel—"

"Answer me!"

"Who are you?" The man wakes up fully, shoving back; Flynn tumbles to the street, almost loosing everything in the fog but springing back quickly enough that the man is still there in his line of sight.

"I'm no one—" Flynn's heart is pounding rapid, staccato beats, skipping every other one in an irregular pattern. "I'm—where is she?"

"Who are you?" The man repeats slowly. His large, thick hand travels to the bump on his forehead, then back down to his side.

"I'm—" here he pauses. "I'm Eugene Fitzherbert." The name is foreign on his tongue, as foreign as the day when he told a girl in a forest. He doesn't know what possesses him to say it. "You've seen Rapunzel?"

"She slept with me."

"Excuse me?" It's comical, really, how quickly his head snaps up, how his body goes rigid, his fist clenches, how his voice is now deep and dark and threatening—

The other man clams up, blood rushing to his cheeks. "I—I mean, she slept in the smithy with me—not with me, like that, I wouldn't—I hardly know her, but we had an extra cot—"

There is an invisible clock somewhere ticking fast so he cuts off the other man and says, "I'm looking for her. Which way did she go?"

"I don't—there was a man, and then—" he gestures helplessly to his red, throbbing forehead and Flynn frowns.

"What did he look like?"

"Red hair…I think." He frowns, but suddenly something is in his dark eyes and his head snaps up. "How do you know Rapunzel?"

"She's in danger. I don't have time to explain everything." Flynn's up and away, down the street, because red hair could only mean the Brother's Grimm which means they have her, already, taken her back to Gothel, but there's still a chance she's alive, a single glimmer of hope—

"Wait!"

He stops because the voice is loud and he hates to attract attention; his response is a forced sort of quiet.

"Shut up!" He hisses into the fog as the big, burly form becomes visible again, lumbering towards him.

"I think I love her." The big man says when he finally stops before him. Flynn regards him with an open mouth for a heartbeat. Then:

"I don't have time for this—" He rolls his eyes, already turning away from the man.

"I think I love her. So I want to help you. I don't think you want to hurt her." He fiddles with the hem of his jacket. When he looks up his eyes are hard. "If you want to hurt her I'll—"

"Woh, hold on there," and Flynn swaggers forward, trying to look intimidating, which is hard against the bulk before him, "the last thing I want to do is hurt her." The end part, for all his bravado, comes out slow and serious, and the large man studies him carefully for a breath; then he nods.

Flynn is happy the 'again' he tacked on to that statement is simply silently flashing across his mind and not loudly parading itself through the air.

"Well, good. I want to save her."

"Woh, woh, woh again. Nope. Sorry. Hero roll already filled, by moi. Not you." Flynn had thought this day couldn't get any worse but apparently he had been mistaken. He turns, feeling rather than seeing the openness of the Market around him once more.

"Those kidnappers, they're probably far ahead by now—"

Such naivety. He's almost disgusted.

"—I can get you a horse."

Flynn stops, cursing.

"Fine."

"My name's Bastion."

"I find myself not caring. Get me a horse that isn't a demon and I might forgive you for being 'in love' with her."

And he says no more.


	22. Chapter 22

**a/n:** expecto patronum.

* * *

She's sitting calmly at her chair, staring at the stool Rapunzel had occupied so many countless nights before, only this time it's empty. She fingers a lock of her lank, brown hair around her finger; it sags like something dead, and she counts the fine strands of gray it in.

How quickly she's fading.

The world outside is a startling pallid color, the fog thick and heavy around the little nook she carved out for herself and her daughter. She says to the air, "Sing me a song, my child, sing me a song." But no one is there to respond.

She sighs, running the blade of the dagger lightly along the inside of her wrist like some child's play thing. "The boys have been gone awhile," she smiles as the dagger sings over her skin, "they must hurry or they won't get paid." She looks up at the mirror she set across from her and smiles, only her mouth is thin and gaunt, her face pale, her cheeks hollow, her eyes pitted, everything to dust and skin and bone—

She shrieks, throwing the knife; it hits the glass and shatters, everything falling to the floor in a cascading rainbow of herself and her dress, all reflected a million times over. She breathes, in an attempt for calm.

Nothing comes.

* * *

They find a white horse cantering about near the entrance to the capital, braying and neighing in the fog. He tosses the girl onto the beast, who is already saddled, and his brother disappears for a quick five minutes, returning with a brown horse that looks shoddy, old, and not quite as magnificent.

Before they leave he gags the girl and takes one look at the golden nameplate adorning the horse's breast—a palace insignia. He rips it off and tosses it to the ground with a snort.

It clatters to a stop, the word MAXIMUS lost in fog as they push forward.

* * *

"Those aren't horses," Flynn looks on in dismay as Bastion pulls two old donkeys from behind the smithy he works at. "I'm not riding an ass."

"It's these or nothing. Bill and Sam are tough as nails, anyway."

"Can they do anything more than walk?"

"Not really—"

"We need _horses_, Bastion, that can _run_. The Stabbington Brothers have a huge lead on us as it is." He looks down the white-covered road, wishing his heart would go back to beating at a normal pace. The large man's face falls and Flynn finds himself feeling guilty.

Guilt. Guilt! _What is wrong with him_—

"It was…a good try, though." He attempts a smile. It's a grimace. "Just wait here."

He slips into the fog and is back in ten minutes with two horses, saddled and bridled and ready.

"Where did you-?" Bastion lets the question hang in the air and Flynn chooses not to answer, just sits as patiently as humanly possible under present circumstances on his own steed as Bastion ties up his two asses and jumps on the second horse.

"You know," Flynn feels obligated to say this before they begin, and tells him so, "I feel obligated to say that there is a good chance you'll get hurt on this suicide mission. I don't need your help."

"To fight those two brothers? Yes, you do."

Flynn frowns, loathe to agree but knowing he has to, because the last time he tried to fight the two Stabbingtons alone turned out so well.

Not.

"So come on, Eugene, I want to save Rapunzel."

"You hardly know her."

"I want to know her. I feel…" Bastion fades off, something foreign in his open eyes. "I feel like I know her."

"I want to hit you."

"That would hardly do anyone any bit of good."

"Oh really? It would make me feel a lot better."

"I get the feeling that you aren't a people person, Eugene. You don't get out much, do you?"

"I get the feeling that you are annoying."

"Mr. Brown thinks I am."

"Whose—you know. Never mind. Never mind, just—just stop calling me Eugene. Ok?"

"Isn't that your name?" Bastion looks extremely confused.

"Not to you." Flynn spurs his horse forward.


	23. Chapter 23

**a/n:** this chapter gave me trouble. i combined two chapters, and then it just...ugh. yeah. anyway, it's confusing, i'm not satisfied. i'm sorry.

but! thank you so much to TheCryoLegionaire, WhatsMyAge, twihardandveryobsessed, B00kNerd, and Romance and Musicals for reviewing! :)

* * *

She aches, mostly from the horse ride, but a little from being carried, swung over one of the brother's broad shoulders. The gag tastes thick and pasty in her mouth, and she fights the urge to be sick. The tunnel to her little dilapidated valley yawns before her like a gaping maw as she is put unsteadily onto her feet.

"Forward march, girlie," the brother, sans eye patch, says, his voice belaying the grin on his face. "Back home to your mother."

Her hair is loose and wild about her face, and she can feel it tumbling out of the braids. The other brother has a firm grip on her hands behind her, and she struggles a bit, kicking out and behind, but he steadily holds her far enough away so that she can't do any damage.

"Move." There is suddenly something sharp and pointed at her back and she stops flailing. "Or I'll gut you. Me 'n my brother are tired of carrying you—all you are is _dead weight_." He hisses into her ear, and she shivers, reluctantly beginning the march forward back to the place she had only just recently escaped.

She thinks the sun is beginning to sink because the fog is not quite so blinding a white. There is none of it when she enters her overgrown little valley—it sits above, a heavy stigma that doesn't dare enter where the wild things grow.

She knows the path by heart now, but ignores it; instead she pushes her way deep into the underbrush, forcing the brothers to follow behind her as she cuts her bare feet on exposed roots and cuts her arms on exposed branches. She's got them so twisted around that she is sure it is almost nightfall by the time they reach the small stream and the tower's clear, smooth base of dying grass.

"That was some trick," one of the brothers hisses, panting with anger and exertion. She feels the sharp prick of metal as he pulls her head back roughly. "Trying to get us lost forever?"

She tries to say yes, but it's muffled through the gag. He pushes her to the ground in disgust and she lies there a moment, feeling something sticky and unnatural at her back. Her hands are free, and she reaches around to touch the small, shallow scratch there. Her fingers come away red, and she wipes the stuff quickly away on the front of her dress. The brother with the eye patch stands threateningly over her as the other roars:

"The door better be open and Rider better be waiting! We have the girl and are coming up!"

His harsh call echoes in the coming night across the valley, making her flinch into the grass. She's dragged roughly to her feet again and pushed around the tower base until they find a shattered pile of stones and a door she never knew existed. A twisted staircase winds its way into darkness above. With one brother ahead of her and one behind, they begin their ascent.

* * *

He can't get over the 'magic hair' bit.

Bastion tries, he really does, as the town fades into forest fades into thicker forest and they ride on until the opaque white fog around them eases a bit. The horses tire as they finally enter a wood that looks like any other wood, foaming a bit at the mouths, so they leave them behind and continue on foot.

"Are you sure?" he asks his companion again, as they come to a tunnel that lets them out into the most densely, overgrown jungle of a place he's ever seen. "About the hair bit?"

"Do you need me to repeat the story?" The other man frowns a lot. He's bruised and battered, and his eyes focus only on the road in front of him.

"No. No, I should just-I should just accept the magic hair bit…" Bastion thinks it makes sense. Thinks.

He follows Fitzherbert, who had told him his-name-was-really-Flynn-so-stop-calling-him-Eugene, along a worn little footpath that leads them past a small bubbling brook. In the distance a crow caws, and just before the trees thin to a circular clearing with something stone that he can't quite make out, he feels a hand on his chest, stopping him. They stand for a moment like that, listening, only for what he doesn't know.

In this brief pause he attempts to sort out his emotions, but they are tangled and screwy and he can't make head from tail of them. He passes a hand through his hair and waits patiently as Flynn looks up through the branches, eyes narrowed at something. He's thinking back to what Mr. Brown said, only this morning in the smithy, about death, and thinking about Mr. Brown too long always leads him to thinking about unpleasant things that have blonde hair and green eyes and a bright smile, things that die too early and too young, things he doesn't want to think about—

He stumbles backward, foot crashing into a thicket with the noise of a bear stumbling through a stream. He hits the heels of his hands, hard, and the jarring pain sends shivers up his arms as he attempts, and fails, to catch his breath, because everything makes_ sense_ now.

It all makes _sense_.

"Really?" Flynn looks back at him, startled at the noise, and hisses in exaggeration, only he stops his angry frown at the expression sitting on Bastion's face.

"Are you ok?"

"No."

"Oh."

Bastion stays like that a moment, lets the thorns of the unknown plant take refuge in his skin. There is a sort of pounding in his head and he breathes out her name like a whisper that is lost on the wind, only Flynn doesn't hear it because he's back to gazing up at whatever he had been gazing up at before.

"Claire…"

_"You can't hold a grudge against every blonde girl, just because they have the same hair color as your daughter—" _He had said, but a more accurate statement would have involved him not falling head over heels for every blonde—

_I couldn't save her_, he thinks, breaking off mid-thought, shakily getting to his feet, wiping blood and grime from his hands, _I couldn't save her and now she is gone and I am left broken enough that I fall for her look alike._

This is somewhat unfair, and he knows it. Rapunzel is Rapunzel and Claire is Claire, but their resemblance drew him into this mess without him even realizing it. He thinks of Mr. Brown's drunken form, passed out back at the smithy. He knew, long before this, why his employer fell to drink; he knew why his employer still gave him room and board; Bastion knew, and yet he refused to see it, for the dream world in which he lived in, lives in still, had the prospect of _her_ coming back, any day, which is maybepossiblyprobably why he stopped for Rapunzel that night on the road—_who knows, could be her_—

Bastion wonders what will happen to Mr. Brown when he doesn't come back.

_I couldn't save you but I can save her and it will have to do_, he shoulders up next to Flynn, heart still racing, and peers out at the odd clearing.

* * *

The climb ends in warm firelight. She's pulled up into the tower room, atmosphere powerful and overwhelming in its familiarity. Her eyes take in the crackling flames, the shadows dancing along the edges of the space, the table, set with empty plates and no food whatsoever; they travel along the floor, which is littered with glass mirror shards, to Gothel, who sits high-handed and unabashed in her usual chair. Rapunzel's eyes flit then to the staircase, but Flynn Rider isn't there—the brothers notice this at the same time.

"Where's Rider?" the one who does the talking for both hisses angrily. "You promised us Rider!"

"Unfortunately he got away." Gothel shrugs in a careless manner but does not meet Rapunzel's eyes. Her hands are clasped coolly in front of her. "But I see you brought my daughter back alive—how interesting."

The words smother Rapunzel and she fights back tears.

"I expected her dead. Maybe her head, on a silver platter. Oh well, such a pity."

"...Mother…?" At some point in their climb the gag slipped down around her shoulders and she is staring in wonder at the women she thought she knew. The brothers, on either side of her, seem about ready to burst with anger. The one nearest her takes a meaty hand and wraps it around her thick hair, pulling taunt and back; in the firelight she catches a painful glimpse of silver.

"There is something odd about this hair. We figured it out. We know it. There has to be."

The second brother nods. Gothel's hands clench, but that's all she betrays.

"We ain't stupid, lady. Something tells us this hair is worth more than that pile of gold you plan to offer us. So tell us—what exactly does it do?"

Here the woman pauses, taking in the situation, sizing up the opponents. Then:

"Youth, boys." Gothel stands, swaying seductively. "Eternal youth. Surely you must agree that someone would pay their weight in gold to stay young forever?"

The brother's mouth drops a little, and he seems to strike up an internal debate as whether or not to believe her. "So-so we'll cut it, take it for ourselves!" He says at last, just as the silence is getting painful and pressing.

Gothel laughs lightly, brushing the words away like an unwanted pest. "Fine. Go ahead. Kill the magic, it's none of my business."

* * *

"The tower is straight ahead," his traveling companion points calmly, ignoring his strange outburst, "and there is a door around the other side. We'll have to use that to climb up, it's faster. Are you ready?"

He sees green.

"Yes."

He sees gold.

"Then come on."

Flynn enters the clearing and shouts out one word to the darkening sky.

"Rapunzel!"

* * *

Rapunzel's neck aches as the grip on her hair tightens, and she knows that the Stabbington brothers do not comprehend the meaning of her mother's words; she almost tumbles backward as the gold comes unbraided, and the callused hand is forced readjust its tight hold. She peers up into her mother's eyes, which are dyed black by the firelight, and wonders what she is planning, because she can see no way out of this—

Suddenly:

"Rapunzel!"

Her heart does a funny little palpitation in her chest and her mother smiles like a cat.

"Ah. The hero arrives at last. The game is in play. Checkmate, boys."

* * *

**a/n:** this ruins the dramatic ending but i feel there needs to be a little bit of explaining (maybe it doesn't and I'm paranoid)-Claire, Mr. Brown's daughter, died; Bastion loved her, but his grief ran along the 'if i don't think about it it'll go away and she'll come back' line. Rapunzel was the rebound. i hope it's not too abrupt-i tried to drop hints in earlier chapters. so.

anywho. arrivederci.


	24. Chapter 24

**a/n:** quick update, because i shall be on vacation. beware: here there be violence.

thank you for all the reviews, you guys! thank you TheCryoLegionaire, PampleMousse07, twihardandveryobsessed, Sparky Dorian, Romance and Musicals, and TangledGirlForever! :) seriously, i appreciate the time you guys take to review and i just-ugh, you guys are amazing!

and so it begins.

* * *

"We'll deal with you later," the other brother growls, only it's not directed at Rapunzel but at her mother. As footsteps pound up the stairs and echo through the room she is tossed unceremoniously to the floor, hair a golden waterfall around her as she hits wood and her mother steps back and the brothers turn, swords drawn and raised—

—and he jumps into the tower room and slams into the nearest thing, which just happens to be the Stabbington with the big mouth, and they tumble roughly to the floor in a jumble of limbs, metal flying as Flynn knocks the sword from the brother's hand and then they are both scrabbling for it but—

—Bastion's there, blocking with his own sword, parrying deftly, a new found _something_ he can't quite name in his heart as he faces the brother with the one gleaming, evil eye, the malicious smile, and he's pushed back past the trap door with barely enough time to eye the surroundings that Rapunzel lived in for all her life because he's being moved towards the stairs slowly with every sharp thrust—

—and she rolls away, to her feet, screaming, "EUGENE!" because there is a scary moment when the brother finally reaches the hilt of his sword and swings, but the thief dodges deftly and her heart calms for a second and—

—he punches upward, fist colliding with nose and bone, and there is a sickening crack that sends his stomach doing odd little flips as blood, warm and wet, pushes past his knuckles and onto his hand and the brother roars, dropping the sword in pain as he grabs at his broken nose, but Flynn is there first—

—and suddenly they are in a room with paints, Bastion can tell by the splotches everywhere, an unmade bed and a vanity stand in one corner, and he can barely see for it is officially night, so he pushes his own sword forward rather helplessly, remembering times long forgotten, that he had suppressed, next to a raging fire with a girl in brown clothes with shorter hair and a smile that could blind you and—

—she suddenly sees the shards of mirror everywhere and grabs the one nearest her bare foot, turning abruptly on the person standing by the window, who is wearing a calm, almost smile on her face, and Rapunzel whispers, "How could you?" into the night and it floats away, the smile growing contentedly as her mother reaches for a stray piece of gold, and her daughter watches as a withered hand picks it up and a withered voice begins to sing and she tumbles forward, dropping the mirror edge in her haste and shouting because the magic must not be used—

—and Flynn lifts a knee to places he had always been taught never to knee people in a fair fight, but when was the last time the Stabbingtons fought fairly? So he does it and it connects and the brother curses him in several languages, but there is no fairness here and in the one moment he has he looks over to her, sees her grappling with her mother, catches her green eyes and says, "Don't look" over the din and she doesn't and he thrusts the metal—

—right between his ribs, he can feel it sliding around there, dragging forward, side-to-side in a hideous fashion that leaves him breathless and sweating with pain and as the metal leaves he drops heavily to the ground, red in his vision as he smears along the white nightstand like a sick, twisted paintbrush, and with a final, tottering breath he sends a weak kick out—

—and he falls thickly though the air, his one good eye open wide in disbelief because he can't right himself and his neck snaps—

—and with a vision of gold Bastion is dead before he hits the ground.


	25. Chapter 25

**a/n:** one more chap after this and then an epilogue, for all those wondering. thank you for the reviews! i realize the last chapter was confusing, and it was mainly just a stylistic choice-trying something new and all that.

thank you to: PampleMousse07, Alice, TangledGirlForever, Romance and Musicals, and Anonymous Duo :) you guys are amazing, thank you again!

i got one completely anonymous review-thank you, as well. in regards to your question it was the Stabbington brother with the eye-patch who fell, and he broke his neck. Bastion was stabbed.

i also would quickly like to address a review i got from the anonymous 'Angered'. it reads: "if rapunzel ends up with bastion, i swear to god i will kill you."

i read this review and was shocked by its apparent vehemence-it's not constructive criticism or a question. i don't want to discourage reviews, and i guess i should be happy that someone was so involved in the plot as to feel this way, but this review shocked me; i'd rather hear honest opinions on the character of Bastion himself or on the story in general, not statements involving your apparent hatred for my one OC who ends up dying. i think i made it apparent from the get go that Rapunzel did not reciprocate Bastion's infatuation.

sorry, i don't mean to be a finicky writer. i do appreciate all reviews.

but now, carry on.

* * *

The silence is so thick it's painful. It's sudden and abrupt and tangible in the small space. He hunkers up from his lean over his attacker and his face is smeared with red drops, his hands sticky with blood. He backs away. In the flicker of the fire he gleams like a candle; when he turns his head slowly he spies the second Stabbington brother splayed out upon the dark, hardwood floor. His neck is twisted at an unnatural angle. His eye is closed, but his mouth is not.

Flynn hears a stifled little gasp and turns; for a moment he thinks Rapunzel is staring aghast at him, at his killing, at his deeds—just at him in general—but then he sees her eyes are staring up and over his shoulder. He back-steps, nearly tripping over the puppet-like body of the one-eyed brother in his haste to see what upset her. He cranes his neck, tries to get a glimpse through the small gaps between the floorboards, and is about to ask when a single red drop splashes against his forehead.

The blood runs in a little rivulet down past his eye, like a tear.

"Don't look," he turns abruptly to her, whispers it like a prayer, but she's seen it already and she's crying. Behind her the old witch of a woman is smiles smugly, cruelly. As Rapunzel tramples roughly over the mirror shards in her haste to get towards the stairs Gothel bites out caustically, "No, dear, by all means look. Look at what you have caused."

The words are bullets to her, he can tell. She staggers a bit, as her feet scrape and bleed against the floor, but he sidesteps and cuts her off before she reaches the stairs. He grabs her upper arms, and the bare of her flesh is sweaty and hot beneath him, incredibly thin. "No." He says, and his voice is louder than before. "No, Rapunzel."

"He needs me." Her voice is a breath and he almost looses it in the small space between them, because Gothel has begun to laugh uncontrollably near the window and the fire is beginning to pop and crackle in rage. "He needs me, that's Bastion, he helped me—"

"You can't help him now." He bends down until he is looking into her clear green eyes. "You can't help him now, Rapunzel. He's gone."

She flinches and then her mouth sets in an angry frown and she says, "Let me _go_, Eugene, let me go, let me go—" she begins to beat her fists against his arms, his chest, anything she can reach, but he doesn't do as she asked. "I need to get to him, I can heal him—let. Me. Go!" She punctuates each word with a punch, only they are feather light; suddenly she is crying again, harder, and he just sort of shrugs closer to her until she is sobbing quietly against his chest, just below his chin. His arms wrap around her body, and he shouldn't be happy but he _is_, damn it, because he finally just is here, with her, and she's safe.

"I can heal him." She repeats again. "I can heal him."

"He's in a better place." He whispers into the top of her head and it sounds empty and false to his own ears. Many people have told him that over the years. He's heard it about friends and parents and former loved ones and business partners—he knows it doesn't help but it's all he can think of to say.

He's so absorbed he doesn't notice it right away. The faint glow, the crackle of the air like electricity—suddenly the golden waterfall spanning out behind Rapunzel is ablaze and Gothel's laughter has stopped. When he looks up it's too late.

Gothel stands as she had before, by the window. She's stroking the end of Rapunzel's hair like one would stroke a pet; she has part of it looped over her arm like a scarf. When she smiles it's sharp as a sword. Her hair falls brown and youthful around her deep, black eyes.

"Compassionate to a fault, my flower." She stands out pale against the night background and the orange of the fire casts strange shadows beneath her eyes. "Yet all of this could have been avoided if you had only _stayed put_."

He steps between the girl and the mother. He wishes he had had the foresight to pull the sword out of the brother he killed. It's too far off to reach, now, but he shouldn't need it.

He's Flynn Rider. Eugene Fitzherbert. Whatever. He thinks he could take the old-now-young lady in a fight.

But he doesn't doubt that she has something up her sleeve.

"I think the one we should be blaming here is you," he shrugs callously and inches to the right. "After all, you had the foresight to hire me."

"A mistake, duly noted." She snaps, and the lazy smile drifts from her face. "But all is righted. The brothers are dead, thanks to you. They were a thorn in my side. The other boy is dead, also thanks to you. Which means, now, that our secret can die _with you!"_ She hisses the last and lunges forward, like a snake, even tracking his movement as he plunges to one side, reaching, hoping, praying for the metal of the handle to bite into his palm. He hits the ground hard and pulls up, smacking into the lifeless body of one Stabbington brother as he pushes his arm as far as it will go, but he can't reach it and he turns to face the she-witch that's bearing down upon him like one of the wraiths of hell—

"Stop."

He almost doesn't recognize the voice. It's cold, smooth, lifeless. Gothel, bent over him with the now apparent dagger glinting in fire and moonlight, reaches across his outstretched form and grabs the sword he had so desperately been trying to reach. She looks at it distastefully and throws it half-way across the room. Then she bends down and shoves the point of the dagger hard into his stomach, as far as it will go without piercing the skin.

"Why should I stop, Rapunzel?" Gothel smiles down at him and traces a picture obliquely onto his tunic, pushing so hard it rips. "I need only to kill him, then I can have you all to myself, forever." She turns back slowly, her expression still blithe and peaceful, but the dagger goes rigid as she spies her daughter's face. Flynn, looking over from his spot on the ground, can see why.

She has one of the mirror shards from the floor pressed firmly against the base of her neck, holding the hair taunt with her other hand.

"Rapunzel, what are you doing?" Gothel barks, and he can hear the faintest traces of panic in her voice beneath the anger. "Rapunzel put that down! Listen to me, put that down this instant—"

"No, you listen!" Her voice is thick with tears. "All my life you told me the world was a cruel place, that I needed to hide from people who would want to abuse and use my power, and all this time, _all this time_ I should have been hiding from _you_!"

Gothel's hand shakes and he winces as it catches and rips at more than just cloth.

"Rapunzel—"

"You kill him, and I will make sure no one can ever use my hair _again_!"

"Rapunzel, stop this nonsense," Gothel carelessly throws the dagger deeper into his side and Flynn hisses. He can see her knuckles white and pale on the handle of the knife.

"I will not!" She breathes in hard, and is suddenly standing a little straighter. There is something like resolve in her eyes but he can't tell because the fire is dying and the pain in his abdomen increasing. "I am not a puppet!"

"Rapunzel!"

But the jagged edge cuts across the gold quickly and efficiently. In her panic Gothel drops the knife and plunges forward. He scrambles to his feet, head reeling, dizzy, trying to reach Rapunzel before her mother did, only she wasn't going for the girl, she was going to the length of gold wrapped around the tower floor that was fading quickly to brown.

Flynn reaches Rapunzel and drags her back roughly as her mother picks up the hair, smooth as silk, with a look of horror upon her face. "What have you done?" she whispers, then she screams, "What have you done!" She begins to walk forward, towards them, but, distraught, staggers back, looking wildly around the tower room, looking flustered and lost and caught. The hair falls from her fingers. Then she screams, one loud, long note, but it fades away into something ugly and old as the last of the magic tethering her to this world is gone with the night wind. He turns at the ragged sound to find the skin sinking and closing in over itself, the teeth regressing, hair thinning, the pale pink replaced with etched white; Gothel's back hunches over grotesquely and her hands wither to bone, and suddenly she is tugging at the loose folds of her dress, reaching for the long, now brown hair that litters the floor but she can't grasp it with her thin, dying fingers; she stumbles backwards, still screaming, only her voice ages too until there is nothing but a silent gasp and she falls over the window ledge and into the night.

Rapunzel reaches out.

The flames die.

The silence that follows is a different sort of silence than before. In the sudden darkness his ears work overdrive, and he can make out a crow caw from the jungle below. Rapunzel's breathes are shuddery and short beneath him, and he tightens his grip as her new hair tickles his face. "Shh, hey, Rapunzel—"

"I didn't think—I didn't think it would kill her—" She's heaving dry sobs that racket painfully loud across the room. He presses her head back into his shoulder, ignoring his aches, the cuts on his face, his chest, and says simply, truthfully:

"She would have killed you."

It's not much. But it's a start.

* * *

They bury Bastion beneath a lone willow tree that grew wild and free and undisturbed by the bubbling brook of her tower. The sun has risen by the time he places a single rock at the head of the mound of dirt; he's tired and wants to sleep and contemplates just hunkering down right there, but doesn't think Rapunzel would go for that. He straightens up instead, claps his hands together, and steps back to admire his handiwork.

It's crude. But it'll do.

* * *

"HEY, MY GIRLFRIEND LOOKS LIKE SHIT, RIDER, WHAT DID YOU DO?"

Flynn feels like shit, and looks worse, and is about to snap except from behind him, soft and tentative, he hears, "Do I really?"

"No, no, of course not—" he laughs it off, turning to look back at her.

"A little bit." Hookhand says at the same time. His great, round eyes clearly show his worry, however. "But you still the prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on." Then: "You cut your hair!"

Out of the corner of his vision Flynn sees her play with the short, jagged strips and push an unruly one from her face.

"And it's brown now!"

She bites her lip.

"Rider, what the hell happened? You look worse than she does!"

Her lip trembles.

"Alright Hookhand, thank you," Flynn shoulders further into the tavern and points Rapunzel to a little rickety table that sits empty in the back of the bar. He notices the slump of her shoulders as she walks over there, and he immediately turns to the giant of a man standing next to him.

"Not helping." He snaps. "Not helping at all."

The thug's eyes follow her and he says seriously, "What _did_ happen, though?"

"A story for another time." Flynn says, rubbing the crust of a blood-tear away from his forehead. "When wounds have healed, and all that."

"I'm guessing you want a drink?"

"Two." Flynn blanches. "Please."

He drags the tankards after they are filled to the table where she is sitting demurely. Hookhand is standing several feet away, arms crossed, hook glinting meanly in the light from the windows, unofficial bodyguard. The space around their table is empty.

"I got you a drink," he tries a charming-Flynn smile but she doesn't respond so he sets the mug down and pushes it towards her. He takes a sip of his own but winces at the cuts it has to go past to get down.

She fingers her hair once more and then, quite suddenly, reaches for the mug and downs several gulps of the substance inside. She frowns as she sets it back down. "This is water."

"What did you think it was?" He responds wryly. "Can't have you becoming alcoholic now, can we?"

She doesn't say anything for awhile after that. The sounds of the tavern filter past, glasses clanking, the occasional fight. He's thinking about where he can go that's actually _clean_ to get their wounds fixed, because Blondie has some nasty cuts on her feet, when she says:

"Why did you come back?"

He can sense the hidden question beneath it. Namely, _Why did you agree to doing all that you did in the first place, you bastard?_ Only, not so colorful.

"I escaped, and I was afraid the Stabbingtons were going to kill you." He says truthfully. "I went after you, and found Bastion. He said you'd been kidnapped. So I came back to save you."

He deigns not to answer the first question. Not yet.

"What if I didn't want to be saved?"

"I don't care." As he says it his voice catches. "Because honestly, Blondie?" The nickname falls easily from his lips and he can hear the opposition growing from hers—_I'm not blonde anymore_—so he continues, "I don't think this world would be very…fun. Without you in it."

He winces as it comes out, but he's been reduced to a pseudo-Flynn/ Eugene mixture and his eloquence has left him.

"…Fun." She deadpans.

"I mean," and he attempts a charming smile, which was the wrong thing to do, because she glares heatedly at him. "I mean, what I'm trying to say is—Blondie I think—"

"I've been thinking, too, Eugene, and I think I have no reason to trust you—"

"—that you make me a better person, I mean, I only agreed to this whole thing in the first place—"

"—because how can I trust you? After what you did?"

"—Rapunzel just shut up for a second and listen to me." He shoves the mug away from where it its in front of her so he can get a clear view. It slides across the table and shatters to the floor. "I only agreed to this whole thing in the first place because back when it started, when I met your mot—when I met people, and they offered me jewels and things, that was my world. But then I met you and you turned it around and _don't you see_?"

"See what, Eugene?" And her voice is soft and tired and defeated all at once.

"You _are_ my world now. I don't need gold to be happy. I don't need jewels. I haven't stolen a single thing since I met you—ok, there was that horse. But that doesn't count, because I was trying to save you. So it wasn't a selfish steal, or anything."

He misses Flynn. Eugene rambles when he is nervous.

She is sort of staring at him, wide-eyed. He takes a deep breath and continues.

"I don't deserve forgiveness. I don't deserve to have you come running back to my arms, hell, I don't deserve _you_ in general. I'm a thief. I've done some things I'm not proud of, things I'll have to live with. But the thought of leaving you locked in that tower, the thought of you dead—I realized I'd rather live as a broken man in a world with you in it, rather than a rich man in one you weren't even in at all."

He meets her eyes. Then:

"You…complete me, Rapunzel. Like no one else has."

He's never been more serious in his life. Her mouth opens, and his heart, which he had previously been trying to ignore, does a funny little dance and he scoots forward in anticipation, only the front door of the tavern suddenly bursts open with a noise like thunder and they both turn towards the sound.

They have to peer around Hookhand. But when they do, Flynn's heart stops all together. And then his stomach falls to his feet.

"Alright, listen up!" the palace guard yells, and Flynn is on his feet, but the entrance to the back area of the tavern is on the far side of the bar.

Damn Eugene's luck. Damn.

Rapunzel stands and moves in front of him, but she barely reaches his chin. He wants to say something else but his words are spent and catching in his throat. The guard continues to speak.

"…followed the trail of the stolen horses, led us to this hell hole." He has a handlebar mustache to die for, Flynn thinks sarcastically. "So tell me, who took them? And where are they now?"

He notices Hookhand step back a few steps, his wide girth a roadblock to the guard. The man is circling the bar in increasingly wider shapes; his infantry waits patiently at the door.

"Well? Who took them? And where are they now?"

His heart is about to jump out of his chest as the guard nears them. He can make out the buttons on his red and white jacket, the sun on his helmet. He saunters next to Hookhand and leers down in his face. "Was it you?"

Hookhand grunts noncommittally. The guard snorts, but starts to continue on. At the last second, however, something makes him turn back, and from the angle he has, to the left of Hookhand, a clear view through empty space of Rapunzel and the infamous Flynn Rider.

The guard stops dead in his tracks. His mouth drops a bit, before he lets out a hearty laugh. "Well I'll be damned!" he roars, stepping forward. "It can't be—it's not _Flynn Rider_, is it?"

The guards waiting at the door begin to talk loudly amongst themselves as their leader takes another step forward. "Whose this?" He points to Rapunzel and Flynn frowns. "Wait, don't tell me. You're new girlfriend? How'd that last one turn out for you, huh?" He laughs again. Flynn notices Hookhand take a step sideways, towards him.

"Greno," the man shouts back to the front of the tavern, "get me some shackles. And forget the horses, boys—we just caught bigger fish."

Hookhand swings a fist then, and Flynn yells, "Don't!"

It stops inches from the guard's nose.

"No more deaths." Flynn says. "Let them take me, Hookhand. No more deaths. I don't want anymore deaths because of me."

Hookhand keeps his fist poised in the air for a moment, meets his eyes, and then backs down. Flynn pushes Rapunzel gently to one side and offers up his wrists. "Just me, Razoul ol' pal." He grins jauntily. "Miss me?"

Greno comes racing from the front through the silent crowd of thugs. In his hands he holds two metal rings, the shackles, which Razoul takes and slaps painfully over Flynn's wrists.

"No, wait, what are you doing—" Rapunzel steps forward and pushes Hookhand away when he tries to stop her. "You can't just take him!"

"Looks like he beat you up pretty bad," Razoul eyes her up and down and Flynn watches her face grow red with fury.

"He didn't do this to me! My mother did!"

Walter frowns. "What?"

"And you can't take him!"

"This man is the most wanted criminal in Corona." Razoul says matter-of-factly. "To hell I can't."

"No, you can't, I won't let you—" And she lunges forward.

"Rapunzel!" Flynn yells.

"You want to come too?" The guard captain frowns as he bats away her assault. "Fine. Greno, tie her up. She needs some help. Probably brainwashed or something."

"I was not!" Flynn's never heard her voice reach so high a decibel. He turns to Razoul.

"She's not following me, ok? I've never seen her before in my life till I tried to pick her up in this place. Let her go."

"No one orders me around, Rider." Razoul snaps. "Get them outside."

The silence follows them out.

* * *

They are taken to the big prison situated near the harbor. It's thick and metal and he's escaped from it exactly three times, though with the guards surrounding him now he doubts there will be a fourth.

They are led underneath a wrought-iron gate and towards an inner courtyard, and he notices with a sudden feeling of resignation that the gallows are already set and ready.

There must have been another death today.

The sun is high overhead, sending a shaft of light to illuminate the noose where it moves idly in a slight, dank breeze.

"What is that?" She's barely spoken at all since the tavern. Now it is soft, underneath her breath, as the guards begin to bustle around them.

"The gallows." He answers.

"What are those?"

"Where people go to die."

He has the sudden urge to wrap a hand around his neck but the shackles don't allow it. She hisses and he notices her wrists have become red and raw, chafed by the rough rope they tied crudely there. The guard captain, Razoul, is talking to another man up ahead, gesturing grandly and looking back at the prisoners. Six more guards surround them in a circle, and one holds the chain connecting to Flynn, the other the rope tying Rapunzel down.

"I'm sorry, so sorry." Flynn tries a smile, and it is small and sad. "For everything, Blondie."

"Don't say that, Eugene." Her voice breaks. "We'll get out of this. You have to get out of this. I don't—" she looks up at him and he down at her—"I don't think I could live in a world without you in it."

"Rapunzel, I—"

"Alright!" Razoul's voice is deep as he stomps back towards the guard circle. "Take the girl up to the castle, the king'll know what to do with her."

"What about me?" Flynn dares to hope for a second—

Razoul eyes him levelly. "Let's get this over with, Rider."

—which was a mistake. "Oh."

Two guards break off and begin to push Rapunzel back out the way they came, yelling at her as she strains against them.

He feels empty. Void. Null. He is nothing. There is only this moment and he must take it.

He pulls quickly away to where she stands and crashes his lips roughly upon hers. It's not gentle, more desperate, because this will be the first, last, and only time, because his past has finally caught up with him. She tastes like forest and sunshine and hell, he could stay there all day—he pushes roughly against her lips, they part easily beneath his own—all day, for one more kiss—

The guards yell and prod and pull and take away his day. He's left panting, surrounded by red and white, with eyes only for green. She's looking at him; her mouth is slightly parted, her bottom lip puffy. Her eyes red-rimmed. She brings a finger up to her mouth and it hovers in the air before it.

"Alright, people, show's over! Stay awake, girls!" Razoul roars.

"I love you." She mouths.

It's all he can do to smile back.

It's a start, but it's too late.


	26. Chapter 26

**a/n:** thank you Romance and Musicals, TangledGirlForever, TwilightFan29, TheCryoLegionaire, and TarynLabrynthia for reviewing the last chapter :)

* * *

The castle sits easily visible as the guards lead her up the winding hill towards it. As they pass the Market Square she flinches and looks down, memories she isn't willing to face yet coming to the surface of her thoughts.

Her feet hurt. They are scraped and bare and red and raw.

Her wrists hurt. The coarse ropes that keep them tied before her chafe her skin.

Her head hurts. It pounds wildly to the beat of her heart.

She focuses solely on these things, because when she starts to drift away something unknown flits around her mouth and she thinks about the gallows that sit back the way she came.

"Sorry about this." The guard in front of her holding the rope shakes it apologetically. "But Razoul's orders."

She huffs and looks back at her feet. She will not talk to these people, the ones who are going to kill Eugene and the ones who are taking her away from him. When she doesn't respond the front guard sighs. After a moment he begins talking to the man walking next to him.

"Why take her to the king, then?"

They aren't trying terribly hard to lower their voices. Her mother used to do something similar, when she was angry—Gothel would crash and bang around the kitchen and talk rather loudly about all of Rapunzel's faults. But thinking about her mother makes her sick, so she stops. The guards, however, are doing something similar in concept—it is all she can do to keep her mouth shut.

"I don't know. Her mental health seems in question, especially if she was traveling with that Rider. The king'll just have his doctor declare her legally insane and then he'll lock her up, I guess."

They pass up the road leading to Hightown and suddenly it is spread before them, tendrils reaching out from the castle above. She stares for a moment, because in all her dreams she never thought she'd be seeing the place like this. The castle is friendly, with rounded parapets painted aqua-green and towers made of smooth stone. On the entrance gate is a sun wrought in gold metal and shining in the afternoon light.

"Oi! Open up there!" The guard holding her shouts up as they near it. After a moment's pause the great wooden thing shrugs back with a huge groan, the sun parting down the middle to reveal a courtyard with tile mosaic on the floor. The entrance to the palace itself is raised above the ground, reachable only by two granite spiral staircases.

She suddenly does not wish to enter that courtyard, has the feeling that if she does the small hope she had been harboring, the feeling that she could _possibly_ save Eugene, will be snuffed out like a candle flame. She plants her feet as the guards attempt to lead her forward like a dog. She plants her feet and does not move as they tug her towards the castle, until the second guard finally has to push her forward, none too gently.

As they enter the courtyard and her feet dirty the smooth tiles of tan and light pink beneath her the gates shudder close and her heart stutters in her chest.

Guards circle the upper battlements and travel around the empty space, nameless and faceless behind their gold helmets and red uniforms. They stop and stare at her as she is led up one of the spiral staircases to the ornate wooden door leading onto the little balcony area. Two men in royal livery, bearing no weapons whatsoever, stand before it and reach back to pull it open upon their approach.

The hall behind it completely overwhelms her senses. For a moment the pounding of her heart, the nerves of her stomach, calm in shock at the sight of the pillars rising up to ceilings that are twice the height of her tower room. A red carpet creates a path stretching forward towards a gold throne that sits in a shaft of sunlight. The man on it is obscured by several other figures.

The first guard tugs her forward; the plush carpet is a blessing to her sore feet. She licks her lips and tastes something like courage there. As they approach several of the figures turn towards them at the sound, and she finally can see the man sitting on the throne.

He looks tired. Old, though there is a regal set to his shoulders. His face is angular, with a sharp nose and a strong chin covered in a graying beard. His eyes are sad. The crown looks too heavy for his head.

The first guard stops and bows; the second follows suit. She stands a little straighter and musters up her resolve. She sees a chance to save Eugene and she is going to take it.

"Yes?" A stuffy looking man in robes standing close to the king sniffs in their direction.

"Sire, we found this girl beaten and bruised in the company of Flynn Rider, the thief. Head Guard Razoul ordered that she should be taken here, so that you may decide where to place her—"

"Untie her." His voice is raw, scratchy, as if from lack of use.

"Sire—" the stuffy man next to him begins to speak but the king waves him off.

"Shush, Grimsley." He says softly. "I do not need your help in this manner. I shall deal with the budget later, if you please, after I see to this girl. Untie her."

The ropes fall from her wrists and she rubs them; the advisers surrounding the throne shift uncomfortably, and Grimsley seems about to speak once more except the king cuts him off, "I will see you in my study."

It's a dismissal. The figures file out softly, towards a side door that leads deeper into the palace. Four guards remain, lined up behind the throne at attention.

"And why did Razoul order her to be taken to me?" He asks at last. He is still some ways away, down the endless hall, but his voice carries and the sunlight makes his crown glint. In the shadows she can't help but shiver.

"He calls into question her…mental stability. An unusual case, not fit for the prison. He felt you would know where to place her."

"I see."

A silence follows this, a silence in which she tells herself several times that she is going to open her mouth and declare loudly that the king needs to stop the hanging about to take place in the jail, but her voice has left her. She opens her mouth, closes it, waits. At last the king rises.

He's taller than he looked hunkered tiredly on the throne. He steps off the pedestal onto the carpet and says, "Come closer, my dear."

Her heart is somewhere up in her throat as she does as she's told. The guards flanking her make to move as well, but a look stops them. She steps into the sunlight, towards the throne and the man standing before it, and stops just shy of him. She can't seem to look up into his eyes, so she stares back at her feet, which she is becoming quite familiar with. He begins to speak but before he gets very far she opens her mouth and says loudly, "Sir, there is a hanging taking place down at the jail but you have to stop it, because the man didn't do anything wrong—he might have been a thief but he's changed, and he's saved me, and I—" she's swallowing thickly on the words until she looks up, and her eyes meet the king's, and they seem wise and kind, so she says through her tears, "I love him. Please. You have to save him."

But the king doesn't seem to have understood anything she has said. He's staring blankly into her eyes. His mouth closes. As her words echo around the great hall, bounce into nothing, she fidgets uncomfortably under his gaze, acutely aware of time ticking by in a way she cannot stop.

And still he stares.

At last, after what might have been five minutes or five years, he says in his raspy voice of disuse, "Get the Queen."

He doesn't address anyone in particular and several guards move at once towards the small side door. After some hassle, one exits and the rests return to their posts. The king finally looks away, sitting heavily back on the throne and rubbing his beard fitfully.

"What's your name?" he asks, so softly she almost doesn't hear it.

"Rapunzel." She's confused. Overwhelmed and confused, which means that she watches everything with stiff, jerky movements. Her thoughts are racing, nothing sticks, her eyes roam from the pillars to the carpet to the king to the tapestry of a gold sun sitting behind him. "Please, you have to—"

The side door opens. She doesn't turn, but continues to stare rather helplessly at the king. Small, tentative steps are crossing the marble floor until they fade onto the carpet. The king looks slowly at the new comer, and Rapunzel feels inclined to as well. At last, she turns her head and what she sees causes her heart to stop.

Her eyes. Her green, green eyes are looking back at her.

* * *

Flynn takes his time. He takes his time because he doesn't think the guards will go right out and _stab_ him, or anything, because that would be too messy. So he takes his time answering their questions about where he hid that crown or that scepter or those coins, and most of the time he lies-but he's such a good liar.

He takes his time as they transport him out of the holding cell and let him wash his face. He washes it well and good, noticing with a grimace that his nice little beard had lost its manicured touch in the days he'd not cared. The cuts sting as the cool water flows past them, and at last the guards have to drag him away from the little pump in the side of the wall. They lead him down a long hall lined on either side with jail cells. So he takes his time walking. And talking.

"Hey, Al, how've you been? I didn't think they'd catch you."

"You win some, you loose some. Jas is mad at me, though. Need to break out of here soon."

"It's easy, trust me."

And it goes like this until the guard next to him, holding a shackled arm behind his back, elbows him in the side with the hilt of his sword, and he doubles over with a grin. As they leave the cell-lined hall echoes of, "Rider, Rider, Rider," follow him out.

He takes his time walking up the steps of the gallows. This is mostly selfish. He wants to see the sky for as long as he can. It's a startling blue. As the wood creaks beneath him he looks out at the crowd that turned up for his hanging. All guards, all angry looking. He waves jauntily at them all as he finally comes to a stop at the top of the square platform. The noose hangs wickedly before him.

"Flynn Rider you are hereby charged with stealing from the royal treasury, stealing from the First National Bank of Corona, stealing from the local peasantry, impersonating a cleric of the Church, and impersonating a guard of the royal variety. The punishment for these crimes is death."

The noose slips around his neck, loose until someone tightens it from behind. He closes his eyes, because he wants to see a friendly face before he dies. Rapunzel smiles back at him. From his right he hears something creak. The pulley system to draw back the trap door beneath him begins to move. The crowd before him is quiet.

He wishes he could hear her. One last time.

His gut tightens in anticipation. His breathing speeds up.

Then:

"Stop!"

* * *

"Stop!"

Her voice is shrill but she can't help it, not with Eugene shouldered up with that horrible rope around his neck. She slips from the horse she is riding and tumbles forward, the small crowd of guards gathered before the gallows pulling away to make a path for her. Their gaze is torn, and she can see them eyeing the people sitting atop the horses behind her. She ignores them, ignores everything, running to the steps of the scaffold and taking them two at a time. The guard holding the trigger to the trap door looks at her with an open mouth.

"Who are you," he says at last, and she recognizes Razoul, "to stop an execution, peasant?" He looks wildly around. "And where are the guards who were _supposed_ to be escorting you?"

She stands straighter. The sound of horses echo across the courtyard. She turns to Razoul and can feel his eyes travel behind her to the people that had rode here with her. She crosses her arms. "Stop. By order of the princess."

The king, riding astride the large, white horse behind her, laughs heartily, "You heard the girl, Razoul." He sounds like a different man.

The queen says nothing. When Rapunzel looks back she smiles softly.

Then there is an uproar, in which the guards cannot seem to remain quiet, trying to bow and ask questions at the same time. The king dismounts, and motions for silence, but no one seems to be listening. She takes the opportunity to reach up and unhook the rope around Eugene's neck.

His eyes finally blink open.

"I thought I was dreaming." He whispers.

"No, you weren't." She smiles widely.

He returns one toothily. "Did I ever tell you I have a thing for brunettes?"

"Eugene!" She tackles him and they collapse in a heap on the wood of the gallows.

This time, she kisses him.


	27. Epilogue

He frowns at the guard standing in front of the ornate wooden door, and the man moves aside without a word. He feels a smidge of self-satisfaction, and resists the urge to say something sarcastic about a thief (former) ordering a guard around. He takes a large step towards the door and knocks once, briefly, before opening it.

"I don't want to try on any more dresses, Erica, please." Rapunzel is sitting before her great fireplace in a plush looking chair with rounded armrests. She has a book open in her lap, but from the wispy look of her brown hair and the paintbrush she failed to hide he can tell she just took up the position to make it appear that she had been studying the etiquette book her manners tutor had recently given her. Without looking up she continues, "Nor do I wish to dance at the moment, or learn needlework, or hear about the princes from the neighboring land. I am currently busy and have no time for such things."

She's been working on her princess-tone. It still sounds a little too nice, like she could be pushed over with a well-placed argument, or breath. He smiles and shuts the door behind him. "So you don't have time for me, then?"

She looks up. "Eugene!" She drops her book in a heap on the floor and springs at him. He picks her up, light and small in his arms, and swings her around once before setting her back on the floor.

"Your father finally finished his lecture. And we have free time before dinner." He presses a kiss to her neck and waggles his eyebrows, but the overall effect must be rather less sexy than he imagined it because she pushes him away with a laugh, turning back to pick up her book from the floor.

"Stop it, you know I have to study."

"You don't _have_ to do anything," Eugene frowns, disappointed that his plan failed. He sits down in the small chair across from her. The fire is on, despite the fact that it is a warm afternoon, and within a few moments he is sweltering. "You were ready to tell Erica that—I'm glad _I'm_ not your lady-in-waiting."

She snorts, shutting the book and setting it gingerly on the table before her. "You'd make a better one than her." She rises again, stretches, her fitted purple dress swishing around her feet. She begins to move, and for one moment he thinks she is going to the bed but he is sorely disappointed once more when she heads to the bay windows, opening the doors and walking out to the balcony. He follows her.

She puts her chin in her hands and stares out at the kingdom. It's much cooler out here, a slight breeze coming up from the lake, the buildings and people looking like ants beneath them. He stops beside her.

"Sometimes," she says at last, squinting into the sun, her short hair tossed by the wind, "I wonder how this is different from the tower."

He's about to ask what she means but then he stops. He rubs his neck and leans down on the railing next to her. He doesn't want to play stupid, he knows exactly what she means—she has a schedule. She can rarely paint, or read what she wants, or go riding. She has lessons and more lessons and balls and dinners and all the while she has to learn to be someone she has never been.

"I love them," she says, "but I love them like I feel someone would love a favorite neighbor." He knows she is addressing her parents. Her real parents. "They don't feel like my mother, or my father—not yet, I mean." She sighs and rubs a hand across her eyes.

"Looks like you traded one prison for another," he says it half-jokingly, but as soon as it leaves his mouth he can sense the truth in it.

She smiles brightly at him, and his stomach does a little flip. "But I got to save you in the deal, so it was worth it."

"I guess," he says, though he doesn't really think so. Something begins to stir at the back of his head, an idea, and he waits patiently for it to grow as Rapunzel continues to speak.

"We have the ball tomorrow, to welcome the prince from Lune. I think my parents are still trying to get me to want to marry someone respectable."

"I heard the prince was horribly ugly." He says automatically.

"Oh, that's horrible." She agrees seriously. "But I'm sure he has a better reputation than you."

"Hey, my fake-reputation was doing just fine until I met you."

"Wouldn't want anyone to question that now, would we?"

"A fake-reputation is all a man has, you know." He smiles, but it fades quickly. She stops talking and returns to staring.

They stay like that until someone knocks at the door. The sound faintly resounds out to where they stand, listening to life go on below them.

"That would be Erica," she sighs. "To help me get ready for dinner."

"Oh." He fingers his new, dark blue tunic with its fine embroidery, scuffs one of his new black boots on the stone.

The knock comes once again, louder this time.

"We could ignore dinner."

"Eugene," she sing-songs exasperatedly.

"No, listen. We could ignore dinner. And those lessons tomorrow. The diplomatic meetings. The ugly princes."

"What are you talking about?" she straightens to look at him. He straightens to look at her.

The knock again, twice this time, and louder, accompanied by a muffled, "Princess Rapunzel?"

"We could go someplace and paint. Travel the countryside. See places. Go on an adventure."

"What are you saying?"

_Knock-knock-knock-knock._

"I'm saying," and he can feel the twinkle in his eye as he looks down at her, "that the kingdom has waited eighteen years to find their lost princess. I think they can wait another few."

She stares opened mouth at him. "I couldn't—I couldn't just _leave_ them, that'd be horrible!"

"It'd be like a sabbatical."

"A what?"

"A vacation."

"But Eugene, they'd be devastated!"

"We'd be back." He holds out his hand. "Think about it, Blondie. For once in your life, do something that _you_ want to do."

She stares at his outstretched fingers.

The knock. Then: "Princess Rapunzel, may I please come in? We must be getting ready for dinner!"

She grins sharply, suddenly, excitedly. The prospects lie before her and she can see them all, beautifully and gloriously free.

She takes his hand.

* * *

**a/n:** it's been a long ride, everyone. if you've been with me through most of it, some of it, or just a little bit of it-thank you. :) my readers and reviewers kept me going. this is it for _Unbraided_, and i only hope that everyone enjoyed it-through the good times, and the bad times, and confusing times. i hope to hear from you as to how you liked it-drop a review, they make me happy :)

my reviewers-i can't thank you enough. i'm only sorry i couldn't respond to everyone personally. thankyouthankyouthankyou

now i can branch out. maybe work on _Knots_. i'd love to collab with someone, or read other fics-if you have a good recommendation please let me know!

anyway, that's it for now, folks. i hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading, and leave a note :)


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